Ilrhenir, son of Aragorn
by elizabeth wyeth
Summary: CHAPTER 6 IS UP! Ilrhenir, a young man from Bree goes south on a quest to find his father and gets embroiled in the battles against the forces of Isengard and Mordor.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own ME. But I like to play with it. 

Warnings for violence, OC bashing, near-rape, and utter angst.

Ilrhenir Son of Aragorn:

Chapter 1: The road to Isen

Ilrhenir lay there pretending to be asleep, or unconscious rather, considering the beating he'd just received from the horrible creatures who had him captive. Over the last day and night since his capture, he'd discovered that they tended to ignore him after they thought he had lost consciousness. But given a single hint that he was waking, they started in again on the torment, even whilst he was being marched straight through what his pitiful little map had once indicated was the Gap of Rohan. 

That is, before they had stripped him of his map along with all the rest of his belongings. 

In fact, he had been robbed of everything but his threadbare shirt, leather jerkin and simple brown breeches. Even his shoes were stolen, making the march they kept up, that much more miserable in the cold of late February.

He lay as still as the radiating pain would permit, fighting the urge to find a position that hurt less on the cold, rocky ground. It was difficult to do with his hands bound before him and his bare feet numb with the cold, but eventually he was able to block out his body's numerous complaints. And as he metered his breathing as best he could to emulate sleep, he pondered the last several weeks since leaving Bree.

Ilrhenir stifled a sob as images of his mother, Jenna, flooded over him. Some memories were calming and maternally warm, some indicative of her last horrible few hours of life. He had been surprised, since her death, to find the happy memories more painful than the mournful ones. Too much of a reminder of a woman who deserved a beautiful life but was instead granted one cut short by poverty and violence. But though she had lived a harsh existence, she was a soft spoken, gentle natured woman. Small in frame but giant in spirit and he missed her with an ache that blinded him to the physical pain of the wounds inflicted by his current predicament.

As oblivion claimed him, he wondered if she was at peace. And for the first time since her passing, he sincerely wished he'd joined her that night in her eternal rest. The bone deep weariness that seemed to wick into his very heart from the abuse of his captors didn't seem to abate with just sleeping, and Ilrhenir realized with grim satisfaction that the torment could not go on indefinitely before some serious injury caused him to join her in her mortal slumber.

………………………………................................................................................................

Despite the pain from the previous night's abuses, Ilrhenir had slept soundly once he had succumbed, not harried by a single evil dream in his exhausted state. So it was a shock to be woken by an explosion of pain in his ribs and a foul voice grunting at him from above in a language that crudely mimicked his own. The creature drew back its thick iron toed boot to kick him a second time. "On yer feet, pretty man-child! The White Hand will want ta have a look at ye soon. So up with'e!" The monster grinned cruelly with sharp, yellow teeth and hard, luminescent eyes. 

Ilrhenir rolled slowly to his knees, apparently a bit too slowly. For the beast suddenly grabbed him by his jerkin and hauled him to his feet, pushing him forward. His breath still driven away by the force of the kick that had woken him, he stood there gaping, trying to force air back into his lungs, and by the time he drew his first fiery breath he was already marching.

Throughout the day, Ilrhenir was guided north and east. He traveled on and the hours melted away in one long blur of discomfort. And finally, one of the creatures pressed a black leather wineskin into Ilrhenir's swollen hands, instructing gruffly for him to drink. He did not immediately notice the creature offering the drink, for he was dazed by the harsh march, as well as a lack of any real nourishment since his capture. His amassing injuries and the cold that soaked up into his legs from the frozen ground beneath his bared feet only added to his distracted haze, and Ilrhenir had only just realized that they'd called a halt when a dizzying blow upside his head sprawled him on the ground and brought him round to the fact that he was being spoken to. 

"Drink, you maggot! Or I'll lay into ye proper!" The creature again pressed the skin to Ilrhenir. 

Ilrhenir stared owlishly for a moment and then, suddenly thirsty beyond measure, he took the skin and rabidly pulled the cork on it, tipping it back and gulping thirstily. He choked and gagged as, instead of water, a bitter, burning liquid scorched a path down his throat, stealing his breath away. 

As he coughed and sputtered, hot anger rose in him at the laughter of the foul creatures. Ilrhenir had endured enough and now his fear and hurt were buried behind the sting of one final blow to his dignity. At least if he angered them enough, he might goad them into killing him swiftly, before being taken to meet this heinous 'white hand' they had spoken of. Ilrhenir stood up suddenly, not associating the renewed strength in his limbs with the dark, burning liquor, and he flung the wineskin back at the creature before him. He swayed for a moment, but met the creature's gaze and growled aloud. "What _was_ that awful, _foul_ brew?! Is it not enough that you steal from me, steal _me_in truth? Then beat and taunt me at every turn?! Now you must poison me as well?!" Ilrhenir stood there, burning them with his grey gaze, his back straight and his chin raised proudly, his chest heaving and his black hair flowing in the chill, February wind. And for a moment the orcs all stopped.

Then, simultaneously, they all burst into rolls of cruel laughter. One of the largest ones, the leader from what Ilrhenir had been able to tell, hauled up from his seat and tossed aside some dried bit of unidentifiable flesh, charging upon the youth before Ilrhenir could think to move. A thick, greasy claw grabbed Ilrhenir by the front of his stained leather jerkin and shook him with such bone-jarring hardness that his ears rang and wavering spots took up in front of his eyes. "Look'en what we got here lads?", The grayish monster growled amusedly. "The pretty little whelp's got some stones, he has! Saruman will see to those though! Have'im squealin' like a fresh-cut piglet!" And all of a sudden, Ilrhenir felt the narrow pressure of the edge of a blade press up against the tender flesh between his thighs. He ignored the fear that rallied behind his quickly abating rage, meeting the monster's gaze, nearly gagging at the stench of the fell creature's breath as it brought Ilrhenir nose to nose with it. "Unless ye be unfond of them there", and the blade hiked painfully higher. "Then best ye remember that until Saruman has ye, I do. And I'm over fond of sport, I am. So behave." And with that, the beast leaned in and drug his slimy, black tongue along Ilrhenir's cheek, causing the youth to gag and shudder in renewed disgust. 

The big orc dropped him, chuckling cruelly, and no sooner had Ilrhenir's legs set upon the ground then they gave out underneath him. Waiting to pounce, the other beasts then set upon Ilrhenir and he was subjected to another round of torments. The pinching and kicking and scratching all blended together in a blur of agony overtoned by seemingly endless taunts in the creatures' strange and ugly tongue. A welcome darkness threatened, but the burning liquor staved it off, and no matter what they did this time, Ilrhenir remained awake. 

The inability to escape into oblivion in combination with the strange burning of the brew pounding through his veins soon overwhelmed him and for the first time since his capture two nights ago, Ilrhenir allowed himself to weep. This only encouraged the orc's evil ministrations and sometime during their ever worsening barrage, a vicious kick landed solidly on the back of his head and an excruciating light exploded into Ilrhenir's misery, leaving his world swimming in a hazy fog that throbbed in his mind to the beat of his racing heart.

………………………………................................................................................................ 

Wakefulness was heralded by a clamorous agony in his head that had almost reached the auspicious status of music. Ilrhenir was sure a pain this loud had to be able to be heard all the way to the stars themselves. He would have vomited but for the blazing weight still in his belly that seemed to sit there like a hot, lead ballast.

Moments passed and he dimly realized that part of the cacophony was indeed without his mind. The dozen creatures who had kidnapped him were surrounded by many more of their unwholesome kind and an animated argument had broken out in their midst. He laid there praying that they would kill each other, if only so that he himself could lie there upon the ground and die in relative peace, free from their loud, growling and barking voices. 

Eventually, when Ilrhenir did not die, he reined in his disappointment and experimentally opened one eye to see how late in the day it was and where they had stopped. He was sure that he had probably been thrown, like a sack of grain, over one of their foul shoulders so that their journey north could continue, and he might as well mark his location if he could. A few seconds of painfully bright sunlight burning into his skull, and the swirling images confusing his senses told him that he had either been deposited on some churning hell or his brains were a bit scrambled from the last kick of one of the iron-shod monsters. But all in all, he thought the sun didn't look much higher in the sky than it had when they were beating him earlier. He doubted they had gone very far at all since then.

Ilrhenir laid there for quite a while as the argument broiled on amongst the beasts. He was unable to move beyond shaking, and so hurt and cold that he didn't really care to continue trying. After a length of many minutes passed, his body seemed to give up it's battle to register through pain, the tally of its injuries. An illusion of a comfortable warmth eventually spread over Ilrhenir and it was long before he vaguely acknowledged a claw cuffing his cheek, followed by muttered curses spilling forth as more of the unknown liquor was poured down his throat. For a moment it seemed all very far away, before the concoction again lent a certain unnatural strength to his limbs. 

"C'mon you worm. It's south now, and probably the stew pot for ye." Ilrhenir heard the creature growl, and before he was fully aware of it, Ilrhenir was staggering on unsteady legs, glaring unfocused at an orc he didn't recognize, his body a wild mix of coldness and liquor induced febrility. 

The passage of the rest of the day was unmarked by Ilrhenir. He did not even acknowledge that indeed the company of orcs was no longer heading northeast but south now. Ilrhenir was wholly unmindful of anything but the fact that they now kept so fast a course that the usual tauntings of his captors were absent. He was too far gone on the liquor and his own weariness to acknowledge anything other than the reprieve from fearful attacks and the intense desire to lie down. 

The day did pass, despite his disregard, and when Ilrhenir finally realized that darkness had fallen it was only because the dizzying motion of their march had stopped and the cold within him had intensified with the failing of the sun. 

The force of orcs were passing out an evening meal and some creature or another handed Ilrhenir a wad of dark, hard bread and a tin of stale water. The bread he clumsily stuffed down the front of his jerkin in case he managed to free himself, wincing mildly as he remotely realized that several of his nearly unrecognizable fingers must be broken. The cup of water he gulped down in a single, huge swallow. 

For a while, Ilrhenir looked at the battered tin cup in his bound hands, abstractly wondering at the fact that he saw two of them dancing before his wavering vision. And then he just collapsed over sideways, laying his head upon the cold ground and reaching around to draw about him the missing threadbare cloak that had been stolen from him days ago. 

Ilrhenir was resting peacefully, sure that he could hear Jenna's sweet voice, when quite suddenly, one of the creatures loomed in front of him, seeming to weave in double before Ilrhenir's distorted vision. The youth focused hard, realizing that there was actually only one snarling nightmare kneeling there and that it was the leader of the orcs who had captured him, and right about then he was violently rolled and pushed prone on the hard rocky ground. The sharp, uneven surface bit into his face as Ilrhenir struggled as best he could, panic and confusion overriding his fatigue. But every bite, scratch, bruise and break he already possessed was screaming at him as he wriggled helplessly under the odorous weight that was now pinning him across his shoulders and knees. A familiar filthy claw wrapped itself over his mouth, muffling his outcry before it could utter forth. Terror locked Ilrhnir's mind as he felt the creature's other hand slither roughly over his backside, searching greedily for the waist of his breeches. 

An oily, grating voice hissed in his ear, the fetid, moist breath almost driving away his senses. "We're off to meet a force of those horse fucking Rohannian bastards at the Fords of Isen. No time to take ye to Saruman now, Piglet. So I gets my sport after all."

And just as the grasping hand found his waistband and was yanking viscously at his breeches to get them down over his hips, the heavy force pinning him down disappeared. 

Despite his impairments, it was only a moment before Ilrhenir righted himself and was skittering backwards, ignoring the waves of lightheadedness and nausea sweeping over him. He backed straight into several orcs who grabbed him and restrained his weak struggling. 

One of the new beasts, the one who had yanked Ilrhenir's assailant off of him, was scrabbling about trying to keep purchase over the orc that had seemed bent on his usage. The wrestle was short as others joined the fray, and eventually all was settled. Ilrhenir watched in horror and shamed satisfaction as his assailant was stripped and beaten for the delay he'd caused the company of orcs. 

Ilrhenir had barely managed to tear his gaze away from the limping mass of beaten orc that had so nearly ruined him when nearby, harsh words were loudly barked in their guttural tongue, and the march was resumed. Ilrhenir, still dazed, was hefted up and thrown unceremoniously onto a cooking supply wagon, his hands tied above him to the back of the seat brackets by the creature who now had charge of him. He stared at the green-skinned, diminutive orcish mess officer, who chuckled and sneered as he tightened the ropes binding Ilrhenir's discolored, nearly useless hands to the wagon. "Ole Spurgitz almost had use of ye did he? Ha! Don't ye be gettin' too comfy here. Twas only our need to press on as saved yer scrawny hide. I get half a moment and I'll be about the same. I Likes my man-flesh tenderized afore I cooks it, I do." And having secured Ilrhenir's hands, the orc then took a moment to grope crudely at Ilrhenir, leaving him shivering from more than just the cold evening air.

Despite the alarming circumstances, Ilrhenir felt a skewed sense of gratitude for the near tragedy that left him tied, albeit uncomfortably to the wagon instead of plodding along miserably on foot. And soon Ilrhenir was taking advantage of his new position, sleeping restfully amid the kegs and pots and utensils and dried foodstuffs. Again, his dreams were sweet rather than foul, images of warm, maternal arms wrapping around him and a soft mellifluous voice guiding him. Ilrhenir imagined he sat and chatted with his mother under the eaves of a low hanging cherry tree in the pink bloom of late spring. And while he slept, his injuries troubled him not.

………………………………................................................................................................

When the morning broke, Ilrhenir actually felt some small bit of rejuvenation. The throbbing in his head was somewhat lessened, the aches in his body had died down to a mere roar that he was actually getting used to, and a small reserve of strength pooled in his abused limbs. Today he would either escape or die trying. 

Ilrhenir glared up at his bleeding, inflamed wrists and blackened hands tied to the wagon, wondering the 'how' and 'when' of his escape. Perhaps Ilrhenir could get the orcs to let him toilet, which the youth needed dearly, and then he would attempt escape. But when he looked for the cook to insist on being set free to see to such needs as he had, Ilrhenir found he was alone on the wagon. 

His ineffectual strategizing was interrupted when a sound in the distance redirected his attention and that of the entire camp. 

Though he had never heard it before, Ilrhenir knew it at once to be a horn, a battle horn. It had a deep, rich sound that quickened the sluggish blood in his veins, just as he had always expected it might, back in the days when he had sat at the feet of some town skald in Bree and listen to the tales of distant heroes and their deeds. 

It sounded again, thrice more, courageously battling the unwholesome monotony of the morning enemy encampment and it was like the breaking of a spell. Suddenly voices rang out, some of them orcish, some of them human, and to Ilrhenir's surprise and horror as well came the sounds of great wolves, howling in anticipation of blood-spill. All of them were clamoring a call to arms against the source of the inspiring battle horn.

Now Ilrhenir struggled and craned his body trying to get a view of where he was for he did not remember wolves or men from the blurry images of the previous day. And when he finally was able to twist into an upright position, Ilrhenir's heart sank into a deep, numbing, black hole. 

He was tied to a mess wagon in the midst of an giant army entrenched. Countless monstrous visages with pikes and black shields bearing the standard of a white hand, spread out in trenches like concentric scars upon the countryside. Ilrhenir looked further, for as far as his eyes could reach through the vale of morning mist that still blanketed the world about him and all he could see were trenches. His hopes sank as he realized that he would not be able to escape, surrounded by a force this massive. _Well then_, he thought, _I will try, and at least I would meet my death on my feet and not underneath some rutting abomination_.

Ilrhenir squinted at the horizon eastward, fighting to clear his blurred vision of the world. Eventually, in the distance, he saw rise out of the thick morning mist, a silver snake of a river that slithered across the countryside bearing down from the north, curving off south of them, traveling into the west until it disappeared from view. Ilrhenir was amazed that they had come all that way in the previous day and night's travel. Remembering back to his poor scant map, he was sure that the armies of the White Hand were, by his estimation, waiting in lay for some dark battle a mere several leagues north of the Fords of Isen. 

There seemed a moment of frozen time to Ilrhenir when he lay there and pondered how best to proceed. And then, the far-off horn blasted again, waking him from his reverie and rousing in him the wish to join those in the distance that came to meet this fell force that held him prisoner. Ilrhenir was no warrior and he had no hope of escape anymore, but somewhere in him stirred the desire to at least die with purpose. In Ilrhenir, awoke the angry yearning to die cutting at the horrid beasts who had tormented him, who had ended his road to reach the city of Minas Tirith and find the man who had unknowingly sired years agone. His mother had bid him do this one last thing in her few final hours of life and these _beasts_ had robbed him of his right to honor her wishes. Ilrhenir knew he would never find his father now, but he was determined to meet death like a man and not some wretched, defeated animal. 

It was not long ere Ilrhenir imagined he could just hear the far off clanging of weapons if he strained his ears and he struggled with his bonds, oblivious to the state of his hands or the damage he added to them. 

And as the hour rolled on, he began to see a distant line of black, a great host approaching from the west side of the Isen, and suddenly, Ilrhenir realized he did not know if those who sought to fight these monsters were any better, whether they were friend or just more foe. He decided it was too late to ponder on that and in the end, it mattered not. So he kept his plan, in place; to be ready when any minute opportunity showed itself for his freedom. 

The young sun shone down upon Ilrhenir but still leant him no warmth and he lay there dazedly for a while, resting from his efforts and distracted from the distant battle with trying to determine just how ruined his hands and indeed the rest of him was. By now, he was weak, and sick, and a fever very separate from the one induced by the orcish liquor began to rage within him, creating a blessedly detached sensation in Ilrhenir. And so he renewed the struggle with his bonds as though his pain belonged to someone else, but still, Ilrhenir made no progress loosening the ropes that tied him so cruelly. 

His thrashing about eventually caused Ilrhenir to inadvertently nestle down amidst supplies he had been thrown on top of the night before, and suddenly a sharp pain pricked his side. He looked down to see a small patch of crimson spread at his waist where he had squirmed down through the pile of miscellany to slightly impale himself on a long, ugly butcher knife. He gasped loudly and rolled off the blade, continuing to writhe about, struggling franticly now against the ropes. Suddenly Ilrhenir heard someone approach and he instantly stilled himself, hoping to master his heavy breathing before the nasty creature mounted the back of the cart and found him awake and trying to escape.

As the back of the cart sagged with the weight of the vile creature, Ilrhenir felt his heart leap into his throat. It was the mess cook returned, and it was only a mere moment before the creature scrambled along the piled supplies and was straddling Ilrhenir's hips. One, sound slap across his face cracked the morning air, stinging Ilrhenir's eyes with it's force. "Open yer eyes, filth! I knows yer awake." 

The orc ran it's hands roughly down Ilrhenir's torso, popping the toggle buttons off his jerkin with its claws and reminding him of every last grievance along his body. When the soiled claws reached his newly injured waist, Ilrhenir bit back a yelp. The orc looked down and grinned sadistically, grabbing him over the red stain and squeezing. Ilrhenir kept his eyes shut, but his visage twisted in voiceless agony. "Common, you worthless blight! Sing for us.", it growled lowly, squeezing the wound at Ilrhenir's waist until tears leaked a trail down the youths dirty, battered face, but even then, only the barest of squeaks uttered from his tight lips. 

The orc grunted in rage and reached around, drawing a crude dagger. In an instant, the blade was at Ilrhenir's throat, pressing sharply under his jaw. Ilrhenir made no noise save the sucking in of his last breath and he held perfectly still, waiting for the sudden sharp ache that would herald the venting of his life's blood onto the cart where he lay pinned. But instead, the orc suddenly slashed at the rope bindings that secured Ilrhenir to the wagon seat and flipped Ilrhenir's flailing form over one of the smaller kegs in the back of the cart. Too stupid or too invested in his violence, the orc was oblivious to the fact that with the last of his panicked wits, Ilrhenir had somehow managed to snag the knife that had punctured his waist. It was grasped tightly in one of his half ruined, but free hands .

The orc quickly cut at the waist on Ilrhenir's breeches and yanked them down to his thighs, leaving a shallow gash on Ilrhenir's back where the knife sliced not only the waist-tie on his garment but Ilrhenir's flesh as well. And as the vulgar beast gripped his backside, digging its claws into the tender flesh of his cheeks, Ilrhenir swung back blindly and somewhat clumsily with the hidden blade, investing it with all his rage and fear and very nearly the last of his strength. 

Relief and an odd curiosity peripherally flooded his mind as the blade stopped with a thud, deep in the orc's tough hide. Time, which had only moments before seemed to pass in a violent whirl, now seemed strangely still and a single last grunt from the orc echoed like an avalanche in Ilrhenir's ears as he yanked the blade free. Suddenly, the beast fell dead against him, and he lay there for a moment, still pinned over the keg, unsure of how to proceed and half unbelieving the opportunity before him as the rank, sticky flood of orc blood washed over his back.

Precious moments went by before Ilrhenir's thoughts finally left their entranced dervish to rejoin him in the present. Ilrhenir struggled, aggravating his hurts into a symphony but he eventually was rewarded when the rancid body rolled off of him. Free of the dead monster, he was suddenly taken with the urge to be rid of the gore fouled jerkin and tunic as well. So Ilrhenir cast down the knife and stripped off the garments in maddened haste, as quickly as his swollen, senseless fingers could rip them off. It was only then that he realized his ruined breeches had slid down to his ankles. He had no time or inclination to repair them. He was free and in his wild mind the garments fouled by his captivity were better left behind anyway. 

Peripherally, his thoughts fell on the fact that he was attracting the attention of orcs in the surrounding trenches. And Ilrhenir, now overcome with the horrific dread of being recaptured, took up the knife again and leapt off the cart, oblivious to his nakedness or the jarring pain of the leap. And before the graceless orcs could climb from their trenches he was off, the rush of freedom and consuming panic driving Ilrhenir heedlessly across the pitted terrain towards the horizon, the east, where the sun had risen two hours gone and from whence he had heard the call of the horn. 

Though time seemed to freeze for Ilrhenir, the morning and approaching noontide came. Ilrhenir continued to weave frantically across the trench-lines, and all the while he dodged thick orcish arrows and the well hidden, long chasms of pike-armed orcs spanning the green waiting to skewer him, but none pursued him afoot. 

Ilrhenir now understood that the plan was to shoot or impale him before he reached the approaching horsemen giving chase to a much smaller troop of retreating orcs only a handful of miles ahead. They intended to do this without disclosing their exact numbers or position by actually giving him chase. And many times they came close to spitting him on their pole-arms or dropping him dead with an arrow shaft twixt his shoulders, but ever he wildly dodged, running on spirit alone. 

The sun hung just at midday as he reached and passed the last of the hidden dugouts, and he felt a mad joy leap into his breast at seeing human faces. But his joy was short lived as he felt the sting of an arrow-tine slicing past his brow, leaving a burning wetness at his temple that made his stomach roll. Ilrhenir fought the shadows chasing his consciousness, hoping to reach the human riders. To him they seemed beautiful. They were tall and doughty men who were fair and fierce as the summer sun, riding upon the backs of great grey steeds that appeared to trample the chill vapors and mists beneath their mighty hooves. But daylight wavered in his sight and the pounding in Ilrhenir's head no longer set a pace for the rhythm of his limbs. 

He faltered and fell, just as the retreating orcs flooded past him, hounded close by the fair cavalry. He would have warned the riders of the enemy entrenched behind him, but for the cold ground rising up to meet him so quickly. Ilrhenir's eyes closed and he only had time to ponder that at least he would be trampled underneath the great grey horses a free man, and then he surrendered to the dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

Here is some more….you get to find out what happened to poor Ilrhenir after the orcs.

Ilrhenir Son of Aragorn 

Chapter 2: The First Battle of the Fords of Isen

Ilrhenir woke shivering with cold and pain; a strange rhythm pounding underneath him that inspired his stomach to heave, despite very its empty state. A heavily accented, loud oath uttered from behind as Ilrhenir leaned over groaning and gagging. "Eorl's bones, boy! You sully my mount and I'll set you back upon the ground!"

Ilrhenir squeezed his eyes shut the instant he dared pry them open, the flood of nausea renewed in him by the swiftly passing scenery below. Along with the dizzying, pounding motion, Ilrhenir could smell a strong dusky scent and finally knew it to be the sweating beast under him, working to carry them away. 

__

Away? Immediately his head snapped up and he swept his gaze about them frantically, despite the protests of his body. "Easy there lad. You're free of those foul beasts." came a deep voice from behind him again, and for the first time, Ilrhenir noticed the hard heat of the man's body at his back and the thick arm cinched firmly round his waist keeping him from falling off the horse.

A moment of panic ricocheted through Ilrhenir as he realized that the man's other hand held a long blade and not the reins to guide the grey beast, which were secured on a silver saddle ring. 

His voice cracked forth in a wild tone. "It's fine enough not to be driven by those monsters anymore sir, but who is it that drives us now? You, or your horse?" He sat up straight on the saddle and tensed, making his every injury scream.

The Rohannian carrying Ilrhenir on his lap ahead of him, laughed. "Have no worry for our course youngling, we retreat to the Isen atop Naisi, and he is clever and brave and swift. And it is by my legs that I rein him, so refrain from squeezing him so with yours, lest you confuse him." The Rohannian warrior knew otherwise, but at least the boy made an attempt to relax, he had been easier to bear when unconscious. They were close hounded by the forces of Saruman and in greater number than the Eorlings had anticipated and it did not serve to be struggling with the boy while the possibility of trading blows with the enemy was so near.

Ilrhenir tried to ignore the protests of his injuries at the jarring rhythm of the horse beneath him by focusing on the scene about. The wind blew chill and the sky was a moody slate blue that seemed heavy about him, as though the heavens themselves took bruising exception to the presence of Saruman's abominations. The rolling turf passing under Naisi's hooves was still hard with cold, but all the same, it yielded tall greenish grasses that whipped Ilrhenir's torn, naked feet like countless slender flails. For as far as he could see, the immense grassy ocean continued on east, far past the river that sliced a silvery path through it, south and west.

At a distance behind him, Ilrhenir still heard the faint but harsh exclamations of orcs and men and horses and wolves, mixed with the clash of steel. He craned around to look behind, only to see a great blond head with green eyes flashing sternly, a short-trimmed, yellow beard upon the well turned face. "Mark not their closeness boy, but rest yourself and be ready to dismount when Theodred calls for it." The man called loudly above the din of wind and hoof beat.

"Theodred?" Ilrhenir inquired through clenched teeth as their mount leapt a small chasm and landed with a jolt that immediately stole his breath, lancing pain throughout him.

"Theodred, Theoden son." The man mounted behind him intoned as though that clarified all, as though all should know the name. 

Speaking was hard and uncomfortable, for Ilrhenir had to nearly shout to be heard, so he did not bother to ask who Theodred, or his father Theoden were, he only asked one thing more. "What is _your_ name?"

"Baelorn of the Riddermark, son of Baeorl. And yours? I mark from your speech and your sable tresses that no Rohirric blood flows in your veins, but you are also no Dunland dog either, or else I would have let you perish upon the field."

Cold was stealing over Ilrhenir again and he shivered slightly, chafing his arms with discolored hands that were only now beginning to sharply tingle with renewed sensation, a thing he was beginning to regret. Ilrhenir wondered if conversation was worth the effort, but that it might serve as a welcome distraction from his discomforts. "I…uhmm…. My name is Ilrhenir. I was captured trying to make the Gap of Rohan." 

"Ilrhenir." Baelorn seemed to roll the word around briefly, giving it new color with the accent of his native tongue. "Tis, a Gondorian name to be sure. What man of Gondor doesn't know the Gap to be held by Saruman? Or are the men there so few now that they send beardless youths, lone to scout reconnaissance and be captured and tortured so?" Though Ilrhenir did not look back, he could feel Baelorn's disapproving frown, all the same.

"My lord mistakes my worth.", Ilrhenir finally called back. "I am but a poor freeman from the north; from Breeland, not from Gondor. I was traveling south to reach Minas Tirith, where I was told that my father helps to hold the white city against the press of Mordor. And I had no knowledge of this Saruman or his black purposes, so I knew not that camping at the pass would find me in the company of those fell creatures." Suddenly, images of his imprisonment flashed briefly through Ilrhenir's thoughts stifling his newfound desire for conversation. He seemed to suddenly realize his nakedness and so Ilrhenir wrapped his arms about himself and dropped his chin to his breast, closing his eyes against the memories of his journey. 

Baelorn, sensing the youth's sudden reluctance, took what he had of Ilrhenir's story and let it lie. Later, there would be questions and the boy would most likely be carted off to Edoras for the King and Grima to interrogate. So best to let him rest of his ordeal now, as best he could on horseback.

After a while, their pace slowed some. Haste was still needed but greater was the need to turn and answer those of the pursuing enemy that followed too closely. And for a while, this kept them from making good time to the Fords. Ilrhenir found out, while riding that afternoon, that Baelorn was a member of one of eight cavalry companies that had originally ridden out that day with Theodred, from the Fords of Isen, to meet Saruman's army. Their aim was to take the fight to Isenguard before the orcish army mustered fully and reached the Fords, but the enemy was further advanced than they had known. Baelorn explained that the Eorlingas had seen Ilrhenir fall on their approach of the trenches and Baelorn had leaned low from his saddle and swept the boy up as he fainted, planning on discarding him if he were already slain. But Ilrhenir had been alive, so Baelorn had fought the orcs with Ilrhenir astride ahead of him. Shortly after that, the Rohirrim had nearly been outflanked as they fought the entrenched orcs. Fresh troops from Isengard had come in from the west and were about to cut off the Rohirrim's only path of retreat to the Fords. But Theodred's rear cavalry guard had arrived just in time to excavate them, and here they were, retreating to the Fords to make a stand until more forces from Edoras could come to fortify them.

The day was long and harsh but Ilrhenir saw none of the battle up close. Theodred pushed, to the front wall of their retreat, Baelorn and many of the other Rohirrim bearing wounded or drawing rider-less mounts. And eventually the sounds of battle seemed to fade from Ilrhenir somewhat, as Baelorn and others moved on as fast as their mounts would carry them and his fatigue wore away his senses.

To Ilrhenir, Baelorn seemed vaguely dissatisfied with being ordered ahead of the battle but he complied without hesitation and so as twilight approached, they finally made the River Isen, much ahead of the rear guard that engaged the enemy in the distance. 

They forded the Isen along an expanse where it widened and shallowed so considerably that a low stone shelf had been built to cross either arm of the great river right where it was split in twain by a large islet. The Fords of Isen were actually possessed of bridgeheads to mark the stoney causeway on both the east and west banks. And as they passed the western bridgehead, through to the large eyot in the center of the Ford, Ilrhenir watched Theodred call orders while dismounting his great grey stallion. Ilrhenir didn't understand all of the thick sounding language of the Rohirrim, but he caught the odd word and watched with excited interest as all riders but those carrying injured comrades climbed off their steeds and sent their horses with the wounded across the eastern bank. 

After crossing, Baelorn climbed off Naisi and helped Ilrhenir to dismount. It was then that Ilrhenir realized his legs were like unto water, and if not for the Rohirric cavalryman scooping an iron arm under him in support, The youth would have fallen to the ground. With an arm still under Ilrhenir's shoulders, Baelorn took Naisi's reins and started to walk away from the eastern shore, but Ilrhenir was reluctant to be led away. 

"By the look of you boy, you have seen much evil recently. You are taken with fever and the cold and should come away to the healer's tents to be tended."

Ilrhenir looked up at Baelorn, realizing for the first time how the man towered above him, but he lifted his chin and gave him a look of stern resolution. "No Sir, Baelorn. I…I thank you, but if they breech the Ford….. then I would rather know it and fall here fighting than be with the wounded, either recaptured or slain in my sleep." 

Baelorn snorted indignantly, but with a newfound respect for the boy's courage, though he also wondered if the boy weren't simply reluctant to have the healer's intimate ministrations after his captivity at the hands of Saruman's abominations. Though he did not suggest this. "You are possessed of a boldness befitting our own lads, boy. But fear not, the forces of Saruman will not take the Ford this day, though the cost be mighty. Theodred is too great for the likes of those scum. Come away and you may be tended and fed." But when Baelorn looked into the youths haunted, bruised features he sensed that Ilrhenir would not be budged without a fight, for whatever reason. So, knowing that his charge would not and could not escape, Baelorn eased Ilrhenir to the ground and removed his cloak. He then gently clasped it about the boy's battered, naked shoulders and handed him a long, beautifully crafted knife from his belt. "Keep the blade for a while and rest here a moment. I will muster some clothing and food and return shortly. Though I doubt that we have cloths to match your…uhm… conservative stature." He smiled reassuringly and turned to Naisi. Baelorn reached for his waterskin off his saddle, and then remembered suddenly that in all the long ride that must have covered at least seven leagues back from the orc trenches, Ilrhenir had never once complained of thirst. For that matter, beyond groaning occasionally, Ilrhenir had not once complained of his hurts, of which Baelorn had seen were many. Baelorn untied his waterskin, took a long draught himself and then handed the remainder to Ilrhenir, leading Naisi to be tended and tethered. He would return soon with supper for them both and a healer to escort the boy regardless. 

Ilrhenir sat upon the cold ground, with Baelorn's cloak drawn tight about him, sipping gratefully from the waterskin held tenuously in one swollen hand, with the blade grasped in the other. He sat there ruminating darkly, his mind flitting from one terrible memory to the next, oblivious to the stares he was getting from passing men. 

From the raised east bank, he could just make out the man Baelorn had that afternoon named Grimbold, leading the rearmost force to surrender their mounts over the Ford in order to fortify the infantry holding the west bank. Ilrhenir watched Theodred, standing with his many men further back on the shores of the islet, intending to keep the ford there should the fortification of the west bank not hold. Already, on Ilrhenir's side, the east bank infantry were standing ready to repel any that made it past the first two fortifications.

As cavalrymen carrying wounded or leading extra mounts shed their burdens, they were either sent to eat and rest, or join on foot the stand of men holding the eastern bridgehead of the Ford. 

Ilrhenir watched the west bank a while longer before his eyes began to flutter under the weight of exhaustion. And just as his aching, cold limbs seemed to surrender, he was jarred suddenly by the screams of horses and the chilling howl of wolves nearby. Ilrhenir looked immediately north knowing that no horses remained on the west bank, and to his horror he saw the pickets of Rohannian horses ravaged by Dunlanders and orcs riding massive, yellow eyed wolves. They had come down from Isengard along the east bank of the Isen and so had taken the encampment unawares. 

Behind the murderous wave of wolf riders and Dunlanders came two battalions of the giant orcs wearing the livery of Saruman, wading into the fray . Except for those few still mounted, sent across from the western battlefield with horses and wounded, there was little or no mounted attack to be made by the Rohirrim who's steeds were now mostly slain or scattered, and those few mounted riders defending the garrison were soon scattered, much as their horses. Those riders who remained alive and unscattered were relentlessly pursued southwest, along the course of the Isen by the Uruks. So the main resistance to the easterly force of Saruman's army was the Eastern infantry.

Ilrhenir scrambled to his cold-numbed feet as best he could and pressed himself to the lea side of the bridgehead and watched. And it was at that moment that he realized all was lost for these men, whoever they were, and lost for himself as well. So Ilrehnir, tightly gripping the long knife, tried to decide where best to wait for his end. He looked on the islet to Theodred and his company, who where waiting to face any orcs that broke 

through the west bank fortification, and then he looked across the east bank, where the unprepared garrison was striving to overcome the Uruks, mounted Dunlanders, and Wolfriders. 

"Well!" He suddenly had a mind to shout, his fear and anger giving him a voice. "No need to meet death on the Ford below when it's been good enough to come seeking me here." And with his mother's name on his lips, Ilrhenir ran to join the waves of men and orcs and wolves all hacking and rending and bleeding in a maddening swirl of violence that immediately stripped away his senses.

The battle would have been horrid by light of day, but by twilight it was far worse. Ilrhenir found himself at times hesitating, unsure that who he was facing was not Rohirric, and more than once, they had been. Amid the screams of the triumphant and the dying came another kind of sound, the mad wail of someone who had never before experienced such violence wrought, and who was being lost in it now. Ilrhenir had shifted into a wild ferocity where bloodshed was at once the source of his grief and its outlet.

He counted no blows delivered and felt none taken, though in fact Ilrhenir had received several. None of them were mortal of themselves, but coupled together and in combination with his last few day's trials, he was sorely spent, though his body knew not what his mind would not let it. So Ilrhenir fought on, even as he was driven back, stumbling with exhaustion, weeping with battle madness, and hewing as though demon possessed. 

And all along Ilrhenir was pressed, with the Rohirrim, back towards the east bank of the Fords, pinned against the river. Those on foot who remained alive were then driven across the eastern bank, onto the Fords themselves, crushed in between the forces of Saruman on either side of the Isen. As Ilrhenir, along with the flood of retreating Rohirrim reached the eyot, they all heard the triumphant yells of the orcs and Dunlanders crying out their dark joy at having taken the east bank. 

Upon reaching the broad eyot, and butting up against Theodred and his company Ilrhenir turned to face the pursuing enemy, having run out of room to retreat. And it was fortunate that he did, for just then emerged onto the Fords the most fell enemy yet. A company of men who seemed half-orc, all garbed in heavy, black chain, armed with massive, black battleaxes flooded down over the east bank through a parting in the waves of wolf riders, Dunlanders and Uruks. If not for Ilrhenir's agility, he would have surely fallen right then. Without armor and indeed unclothed but for Baelorn's cloak, to have taken a single blow from one of the enormous orc-men would have proved instantly fatal, but though strong beyond measure, they were not nearly so light of foot as he. And Ilrhenir dodged the creatures like his feet were graced by the First Born themselves.

Unfortunately, Ilrhenir's knife was of no avail against the heavy chain they wore and his battle-born strength was quickly ebbing as blood fled his body and his fever threatened to replace the fire of battle lust in his veins with one of its own.

And just when Ilrhenir dodged the onslaught of an orc-man's axe blade and tripped, falling to the blood-muddied ground, he felt the hard length of the flat of a sword blade underneath his palm. Ilrhenir swiftly put aside the assurance that his end had come at last, and pulled his gaze away from the creature swinging the giant gore-bathed axe above its head for one last death blow. and he looked upon what he had tripped over. Ilrhenir had fallen over the body of a slain Rohirrim and it was the dead man's sword that he now felt beneath his hand. Instinctively, Ilrhenir rolled out of the downward path of the next axe swing, with the crimson soaked blade of the dead warrior in hand, and he discarded Baelorn's beautiful knife. The orc-man did not immediately recover for a third swing for his axe blade was now hung up in the sundered carcass of the fallen Rohirrim. That was all the delay that Ilrhenir needed. Still lying on his back, he swung upwards in an arc with all the hate and anger within him, and watched in detached satisfaction as the orc-man's head parted company with his body issuing forth a fountainous spray of black blood before the mail clad form collapsed.

And so it went on for some minutes, Ilrhenir slashing blindly, madly at the enemy until, through his weary recklessness came a voice to his ears, as clear and inspiring as the battle horn he had heard ring out earlier that morning. "To me, Eorlingas!", cried Theodred. The command was in Rohannian and therefore unknown to him, but Ilrhenir caught the word _Eorlingas, _which he knew, from Baelorn, was what the Rohirrim called themselves. Ilrhenir prayed it was a cry to muster at Theodred's side and not some other command for he lacked the strength to do aught but heed a the call to wind his way wearily toward the center of the islet.

Ilrhenir tried to advance quickly toward the intrepid voice, franticly weaving and dodging between assailants only to be nigh when Theodred disappeared, hopelessly surrounded by axe wielding orc-men smiting ruthlessly at the Rohirric leader. Suddenly, through the orcish melee burst Grimbold with two other Rohirrim in tow, answering his lord's summons all the way from the west bank, and they fell upon the enemy with the fury of ten men each. Ilrhenir watched as the orc-men surrounding the Theodred were swiftly slain, but it was too late, for there lifeless, lay Theodred, Theoden son, with a foul and mortal wound upon him. 

None took time to grieve, for the battle was still on. The Isengarders did not relent for having killed their enemy's leader, there were more to replace the orc-men slain by Grimbold.

And just as Ilrhenir's knees buckled and the world swam, overwhelmed by pain and his last ounce of strength long ago spent, the onslaught suddenly stopped. The orc who stood over him ready to strike turned in half swing to the sound of its fell brethren issuing the call to retreat. It was then that Ilrhenir looked upon the east bank and saw a great white standard flowing like a beacon from the fresh host of Rohirrim smiting and scattering Saruman's forces from on high.

And as the forces of Isengard along the east bank retreated from the Fords, hounded by two of the fresh companies from Edoras, Ilrhenir began crawling painfully to his feet to make his way across the blood soaked, body littered ground of the islet. He aimed himself at the center of the eyot where the Grimbold and the other survivors were gathered about their fallen Prince, still fighting to keep possession of his body from the last body of orcish soldiers that had not retreated. 

Suddenly a rain of dismounted Riddermark from the new host pelted across the east bridgehead of the Ford and as they reached the islet, a strong arm hoisted Ilrhenir up and he looked into the concerned visage of the very last person he expected to see.

"Baelorn…." Ilrhenir gasped weakly, his entire form afire.

"So, you are much harder slain than it might seem, Ilrhenir. This makes me glad." And with that, Baelorn hefted the light form of Ilrhenir up over his shoulder. 

The rest of the battle was short and when they reached the center depression on the eyot where Theodred lay, Ilrhenir was lowered onto the ground amid many who had silently bowed their heads to their dead prince. 

Ilrhenir was vaguely aware that Baelorn was being given cloaks from some of the surviving men, which he tightly wrapped round the bleeding youth. Ilrhenir would have attempted to protest but he was drowned out by the surprised gasps of many men as Theodred stirred when they lifted his supposedly dead form up off the ground. They instantly laid him gently down again and Grimbold knelt at his side, taking care, but searching his wound to see if it had been less severe than it had at first looked. As he spied the axe wound, Grimbold's expression of hope turned bleak. And as his lord prince opened his eyes, Grimbold took Theodred's pale hand between his own two and brought it to his brow. Theodred looked upon Grimbold with a distant gaze and spoke. "Let me lie here…to keep the Fords till Eomer comes!" Theodred gasped one more shuddering breath and as night came fully upon them all, Theodred, Theoden son closed his eyes and died.

At that moment, a harsh, chilling horn was barely noticed in the distance, heralding the retreat of the forces of Saruman along the west bank as they withdrew into the night.

The Rhohirrim still held the Fords of Isen, but at a great cost. Many of their men were dead or scattered, most of their horses were also perished, and their King's son slain.

Very quietly, Ilrhenir wept as he lay there, and he was not alone in this. He wept for the casualties of the day, the warriors who had lost their beloved leader and for the slain Rohirric horses who had been at least as valiant as their masters. He also wept for himself, and all that he had been forced to see over the last four days.

Eventually, as Ilrhenir lay there on the ground beside Baelorn, he felt the pain recede from his weary limbs, and much like the day before, a calming warmth stole over him replacing the bone-deep chill. And even as in the day before, someone was there to interrupt the sudden sense of contentment, though this time it was Baelorn speaking to him and gently cuffing his cheek, rather than some orc slapping him roughly and forcing a vile liquor down him. "Stay awake lad." Ilrhenir heard the distress in Baelorn's voice as if from a great distance. "I know that you are weary Ilrhenir, and I would let you rest but that I mislike this sleep that comes over you. It speaks to me too much of our fallen lord's slumber." 

But Ilrhenir did not rouse himself. He had neither the desire nor the strength.

"Lord Grimbold! Lord Elfhelm! I have one here who needs our aid!" In the midst of attending Theodred's body, they looked up at Baelorn's call.

"Is that the boy you rescued at the trenches this morn?!", asked Grimbold, a look of utter astonishment taking his features as he noticed the lad for the first time. He couldn't imagine how the boy had survived the evening's battle.

Baelorn slid an arm underneath the cocoon of cloaks that surrounded Ilrhenir and drew him up, giving him a sharp shake. "Indeed Grimbold, but he leaves us this night if we do not aid him now!" Elfhelm nodded that he would tend their prince's body, and so Grimbold rose and came to kneel next to Ilrhenir and Baelorn. Grimbold knew that there would be many to tend this night as well as a second attack to watch for, and if the youth was too far gone, Grimbold would not wish to waste time lingering doing aught more for the youth than easing his pain ere he died. He indicated impatiently that Baelorn should lie the youth flat upon the ground, and he opened the many cloaks to inspect whether Ilrhenir was too gravely wounded to be saved. A sudden string of quiet expletives escaped Grimbold upon laying eyes on the naked, gore smeared youth, who was nearly consumed in filth off the battlefield. 

Ilrhenir was aware of voices over him and oddly gentle hands probing his angry flesh. But he neither understood nor cared what they said, only that they left off aggravating his wounds. To this end, he attempted to push away the intrusive hands. 

"Lie still boy." came a heavily accented voice Ilrhenir did not recognize. Ilrhenir groaned loudly, continuing to feebly squirm against the searching hands.

Grimbold looked at the boy's gaunt body, battered and lacerated and he had to wonder why, had to wonder _how_, the lad was even still alive. Amazement warred with pity in Grimbold, but the truth of the boy's condition was not to be denied "He still fights, Baelorn. But it seems too long ere he had proper drink, or food from the look of it. And he is taken with a nighty fever from these fouled wounds. As for the wounds themselves, though each one is not great, together they have drained him of much." Grimbold finished his inspection as gently as he was able and solemnly wrapped the soiled cloaks back around the youth, meeting Baelorn's hopeful visage. He sighed, the weight of the entire day seeming to descend upon him with this one final proclamation. "Sadly Baelorn, I suspect that he will be claimed ere dawn." 

"Is there naught that can be done? He fought like the spirit of Eorl himself possessed him this night, and he had no cause. Easily could he have taken a stray mount and fled in the confusion, but he battled all the way to Theodred, and as bravely as any Rohirrim." Baelorn had seen the spark of the man the boy would soon become and he was shamed to think they might not tend him as he deserved because the Rohirrim had become so distrustful of strangers that they failed to recognize a comrade when one appeared.

Grimbold sighed again, a sad look upon his face and his great shoulders seemed to drag with the weight of the days losses. "Our Prince was felled with one single, sound blow, this lad with many that were lesser, but the effect is the same, Baelorn. However, I will not gainsay you seeking the healer's help for him, if any healers have survived. But there is naught _I_ can do for him but clean and stitch his wounds, perhaps help ease the fever a little. And you yourself are skilled enough to do that much with supplies at hand and more free than I in your duties. Take him quickly back to camp and see what remains there of the healer's tent. Tend him there with what supplies you can find." And with that Grimbold rose and returned to Theodred, passing hasty words with Elfhelm, who started men gathering loose stones from the periphery of the Ford's causeway to stack upon Theodred in cairn. Grimbold called out to the surrounding men that were still sound of limb that it was time the dead and wounded Rohirrim were gathered, the wounded enemy were dispatched and the camp on the eastern bank salvaged. 

Dazed beyond all of the goings on about him, Ilrhenir was annoyed that every time sleep seemed imminent Baelorn interrupted it. And soon he was uttering low curses as Baelorn hefted him up off the bloody eyot and carried him as swiftly as was possible across the eastern Ford and into what remained of their mobile garrison. Ilrhenir just wanted to be left alone to sleep. And despite Grimbold's declaration, Baelorn chuckled hopefully at Ilrhenir's mumbled profanities. "That's the way of it Ilrhenir. Curse my bones as you like, for it takes a well drawn breath to utter such vindictives."

Baelorn was relieved to find that the large, sage colored infirmary tents were still intact. Though much of the encampment had been trampled, nothing had actually been burned or even destroyed, no doubt the result of the timely arrival of Elfhelm with his additional companies of Riders. 

__

But, Baelorn argued with himself as he bore Ilrhenir toward one of the healer's tents. _The forces of Saruman had numbers to withstand against even Elfhelm's companies, yet they withdrew very suddenly. _Therefore, the main intention of the attack, by Baelorn's estimation, had been to slay Theodred. The sudden ache in his breast reminded Baelorn that Saruman's forces had very much succeeded. 

As he approached and entered the one large infirmary tent, it occurred to Baelorn how swiftly the camp had been set upon. Most of the healers had remained within the tent throughout the day, preparing to receive wounded from the beyond the west bank, and had only just been brought a few dozen or so when the eastern force had attacked. So it was that there were many available cots on which to lay his burden and several healers available to tend Ilrhenir. Though upon unwrapping Ilrhenir of the now blood soaked cloaks to tend his wounds, they were no less dark in their prognosis than Grimbold had been.

Baelorn sat by anxiously, answering what few questions they had about his nakedness and those injuries that seemed less the result of battle. When they had the story from him, such as he knew it; he left to tend to Naisi, grateful to the horse Gods that he had not yet tethered the mount when the attack began. 

Baelorn kept his own council, but he knew it was probably the only reason the any of them still lived, for when the attack had scattered what was left of the exhausted cavalry, he had headed to the main road with the intension of riding hard to Helm's Deep for what aid they could muster. Instead, upon the road he met Elfhelm and his companies who were weary from swift travel and about to turn off south to sup and rest at Hornburg, but who gladly rode instead to the salvation of the failing Eord. Alas that Elfhelm came too late to help save Theodred. But had he not come when he did, all might have been slain to the last man.

After assuring himself that Naisi was happy in the hands of Elfhelm's hostlers that had replaced the ones of Theodred's company that were slain, Baelorn met up with those of his fellows who had survived and were settled, mourning in the intense and brief way that warriors in great peril do, with no time for drawn-out lamentations. Around what few fires that were lit in vigilance against the cold night and the return of the enemy were groups of men who sought the voiceless solace of their living Eorling brothers before seeking their own tents and pallets.

Others still spent a sleepless night waiting for the armies of Saruman to surge over them, attempting to take the Ford again, but when at dawn none had come, Grimbold went about staging rest for each company in turn, and a messenger was sent to Erkenbrand at Helm's Deep of the high cost paid for the previous day's victory.

It was at dawn when Baelorn was finally ordered to seek his bedroll and he did so greatfully, but not before stopping by the healer's tent to pay visit to many of his wounded comrades and Ilrhenir as well, if the boy still lived. This time the scene was different. The tent was now full, most cots bearing men who had suffered injuries too great to see them back on duty this day. Some even lay near death, and these men were quartered off towards the rear of the tent where it was quieter and less cramped, separated from the rest of the tent by a great pale screen. 

It was there that Baelorn eventually found Ilrhenir. The healers had naught to say save that during the night he had slipped down into a deep sleep, induced by his ordeal and the fever. The later of which, the healers believed would soon rob Ilrhenir of his life. Indeed the healers had thought to see the youth fail with the dawn, but he yet clung to some tenuous thread of life. 

Baelorn looked upon the tranquil boy, seeing him clean for the first time, laying as if merely asleep. He wished now that he had kept hold of the lad upon crossing the Fords, but Baelorn was not to know that they would be attacked so quickly. He pushed his guilt aside and sat there for a while talking softly to Ilrhenir until his weariness caused the healers to send him away. 

Baelorn slept long and then ate ravenously that day. There was still no sign of Saruman's armies and so he went to the healer's tents to visit again before taking up a nighttime guard rotation. There, the sweet tang of sickness and blood mixed with the clarifying, bitter scent of many herbs. The healers were having difficulty with the many poisons used on orcish blades and arrows, and when the orcs had no poison for their blades they often coated them in their own filth, so even Eorlingas barely wounded were now returning with their injuries angry and fouled.

Baelorn wound his way to the back of the tent and traded words with a man in sage and gray robes, one of the healers. He was directed to the corner where they had moved Ilrhenir that day to keep him further away from men bearing a contractible illness that was also spreading through some of the wounded. Baelorn was told that naught had changed about Ilrhenir's state, he was alive, but nearly gone. And as Baelorn reached the corner, there was an exceptionally broad shouldered youth with the hint of his first beard, in the ash colored robes of an acolyte tending to Ilrhenir. Baelorn went to withdraw, giving them privacy but the young healer waved him over. "Come. Sit. You visited him before, did you not?"

"Aye, and I have come again, only to find him the same." Baelorn glumly accepted a stool and sat down; looking into Ilrhenir's mightily bruised but pallid face, framed wildly by damp, inky locks. 

"Is that not preferable to finding him passed away?" The broad youth smiled as he tended Ilrhenir, his huge hands promised that he wasn't done growing by half. But they were gentle hands, languorous in their movements as he traced the wounds, cleansing them, some of which were stitched with black silk thread, some of which were merely bound closed. 

More disturbing to Baelorn than the sight of the tended sword wounds, were the myriad black bruises and claw scratches and teeth marks blanketing the sallow, dehydrated flesh. All signs of his captivity at the hands of the orcs.

"I know not how long those foul abominations had hold of him ere he escaped." Baelorn sighed quietly.

"No matter now." The young healer said. "For even _if_ he perishes, he will do so a freeman." The acolyte set aside his cloths to prepare a strong smelling herbal in a ceramic cup.

"**_If?_**…" echoed Baelorn. "I am told by your superiors that it is more a matter of _when_." He looked on with a seed of hope as the healer carefully propped up Ilrhenir's shoulder's and turned back his limp head, spooning a bit of the thin, blackish liquid into his mouth. Large hands stroked firmly at Ilrhenir's throat until they inspired a swallowing reflex. 

"Do you agree with my mentors? When you look upon him, do you see that it is time for him to die?" The healer asked smoothly as he continued to slowly work the contents of the cup past the pale, cracked lips.

"I see a boy that might have died a hundred times yester eve, but against all odds did not." Baelorn smiled proudly, despite himself.

"Indeed. That would seem to be the case, since he lives still, despite the dire circumstances. And even if he does perish, I think that he will no go easily, or willingly."

After a while, he was finished and he laid Ilrhenir back and tucked fresh blankets about him. "Remain a while longer if you wish. I will tell the other healers on the evening watch with me that you are here. And perhaps you might speak with him a little. We believe that even one near death still hears all that goes on about him. He knows that you are here."

Baelorn nodded. "I can stay but a while before I must take a shift of my own. What is your name?"

"Haimen, Hallen son." He inclined his head and offered the standard greeting between two of their station. "In service." 

"Well met, in service, Haimen, son of Hallen. I am Baelorn, Baeorl son. We are fortunate to have such healers as you to mend our warring."

Haimen bowed and smiled again carried away the soiled linens and bandages, taking up a long rod of yew. And it was only then that Baelorn had his answer for the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind since first seeing Haimen. Baelorn had paused to wonder why such an extraordinarily stout and hale lad had become an acolyte to the healers, and not learned to fight upon the field of battle instead. But as Baelorn watched the ample youth use the pale staff to guide himself deftly between the beds he realized with no small amount of surprise that Haimen was blind. 

Recovering himself, he also realized that Haimen had tended Ilrhenir with an intuitive completeness and compassion that humbled. So it was that he was grateful for the young man's presence right where he was.

Baelorn sat there with Ilrhenir for another hour, speaking of this or that until he knew that it was drawing upon time for him to take his post. And he left, bidding the withered youth a good rest, free from the darkness of his travels.

Two days more came and went in that fashion. Each morning coming off watch and each evening going back on it, Baelorn would stop by the tent and the healers would proclaim that Ilrhenir would not see another five hours pass. And Baelorn never ceased to be surprised when he returned later to find the Ilrhenir still lying there, clinging ever stubbornly to life, looking very much a fevered corpse, but still drawing one raged breath after another. 

Now it was the evening of the third day since the fall of Theodred. Baelorn had a post to hold in two hours time and as he entered the tent and went straight to where he knew the lad to be, Baelorn stopped and a cold weight settled in his chest. Ilrhenir was gone from the corner where they had moved him to days ago, and in fact, he could not spy the dark headed youth amongst any of the occupied cots behind the curtain that separated the gravely ill from those that merely needed rest and care to recover. 

Baelorn sadly lowered his head for a moment and gave a silent prayer that Ilrhenir's spirit had found a worthy rest and eventually he heard the gentle clacking of Haimen's yew staff upon the surroundings. He opened his green eyes and lifted his head, watching as the young healer made his way over.

"Well met, Baelorn." The young man seemed genuinely glad to meet him there, clasping a solid hand on his shoulder.

"Not so well met, now that I find your mentor's mournful proclamations to be finally true." Baelorn sighed.

Haimen cocked his fair brows, obviously confused. "My Lord?"

"Where have they taken his body, Haimen? I would have him dealt the same honors as any man to fall holding the Fords." 

"Of whom do you speak Baelorn, for we have had a few die this day." Haimen asked compassionately, a trace of sadness in his unfocused blue eyes.

"Why, I speak of Ilrhenir, the northern lad, of course. I…I hope he passed in his sleep, peaceful and untroubled by his injuries." 

Haimen smiled widely just then. "Come with me Baelorn, and I will take you to him."

Baelorn wondered at the smile but followed the acolyte past the partition and out into the main body of the tent. He thought that Haimen would lead him outside to the bier that was parked off to one side. But instead he led him through to yet another row of cots occupied by sleeping men in various states of mend. And to Baelorn's great surprise and joy, Ilrhenir was amongst them, laying in the natural quiescence of one who is resting deeply after a long toil.

"His fever broke this afternoon and it is believed that given time, his life's breath will grow strong again in his breast, Baelorn. He will mend, though the fullness of it will take some time." Haimen felt for a stool and offered it to Baelorn, a wry grin dimpling his face. "If you will but wait here, I will go for his supper and you may aid him in that, since I have many charges in more dire need of my attention than he."

"Indeed, good Haimen." Baelorn smiled widely and chuckled, taking the offered stool. 

"Twoud be a crime to waste your talented ministrations on the merely idle."

Baelorn sat and waited, and just as he said he would, Haimen eventually meandered over with a tray, atop which was a bowl of dark broth, a mug of some golden tea and a small wad of fair bread made from finely ground wheat. "He may take it all, in fact it is my hope that he does, but it must be slowly at first." Baelorn nodded and then just as Haimen was retreating a query invaded his thoughts.

"Haimen?"

"Yes Baelorn, what is it?" Haimen turned to face the seated Rohirrim.

"Do I await his wakening to feed him this, or do I rouse him from his much needed rest?"

A deep, warm ripple of laughter emanated from Haimen before he answered with a question of his own. "Baelorn, do you prefer cold soup or hot soup?"

"Why, hot soup, of course."

"There you have it then. Would you not think that Ilrhenir does as well?" Haimen could not keep the extreme mirth from his voice. 

"Indeed." grumbled Baelorn, an embarrassed flush warming his weathered cheeks. At that moment he was grateful that Haimen couldn't witness his chagrin. 

"Good even, Baelorn." Haimen walked off whistling a merry tune, trying not to laugh.

"Good even, Haimen" And Baelorn set about rousing Ilrhenir before his dinner chilled.


	3. Chapter 3

The chapter title isn't imaginative, but I'm going for utilitarian here.

The warning remains pretty much the same. No sex this chapter, but lots of adult issues come about here. This is also a _slightly _angsty chapter, so if you have angst issues, (and who doesn't after 5 seasons of Buffy) please note that you are forewarned.

I don't own them, but negotiations are looking good. (I own a sword and I know how to use it)

Chapter 3: The Calm before the Storm

The first sensation to return to Ilrhenir as he crawled his way toward consciousness was radiating pain, from so many different places upon his much abused form that his befuddled mind could not tell exactly what hurt. 

The second sensation to take hold of him was an all-consuming thirst. But as he woke completely, Ilrhenir found his throat too parched to speak, so when a large hand slid behind his neck and lifted and a cup was offered to his lips, disoriented as Ilrhenir was, he gratefully and instantly summoned the strength to drain it dry. Ilrhenir did not stop until the cup was completely empty, oblivious to the cloying sweetness of the tea or the voice that sounded a gentle admonition to drink slowly. It could have been brown well water they offered him, for all he cared. 

Ilrhenir laid there a moment taking stock of himself, and he tried to ask for more to drink to ease his thirst, but his voice would not be summoned. In fact, the first words to come from him in three full days and nights were little more than faint gasping sounds that scratched their way out of his dry throat. Thankfully though, whomever it was that was aiding him seemed to understand his need.

Through the slowly lifting fog of his mind, Ilrhenir realized it was Baelorn who was sitting with him. The great man chuckled, commenting that Ilrhenir seemed to have thirst enough to accept a drink if it was from the hand of Saruman himself. And indeed it was true, for as soon as the bowl of broth was then tipped to his lips, Ilrhenir drained that as well, ever grateful for the hand that supported his head. And again, Ilrhenir disregarded Baelorn's entreat to drink slowly. When Baelorn offered it, Ilrhenir slightly turned his head, refusing the soft, white bread. Instead, Baelorn found it necessary to fetch more drink to sate the youth, though in the end, Haimen only allowed him one more drink. The young healer insisted that if Ilrhenir's stomach held onto that, then there would be more yet to come.

So Ilrhenir lay there feeling cold and very pained, his skin oddly sensitive and his limbs overcome with a jittery debility in the aftermath of the extreme fever. He slowly took in his surroundings, trying to reconcile where he was with his last, fractured memories. And try as he might, Ilrhenir was as yet unable to speak, even when asked if he were in pain, though he managed a bewildered nod.

Baelorn kept things light, recognizing a somewhat confused look on the boy's features that made Ilrhenir look even younger to him than the youth had before. And Baelorn had pause to wonder exactly how old Ilrhenir really was. He spent some length of time talking to Ilrhenir of casual things, disturbed but not surprised by the youths lack of response, until it came time for Haimen to tend to Ilrhenir's care. 

Baelorn would have left then, for the sake of Ilrhenir's privacy, though he had been present before during such. But he sensed suddenly that Ilrhenir was disturbed by having a stranger's hands upon him. So the cavalryman continued to sit nearby giving gentle, distracting conversation. And indeed, what little strength Ilrhenir possessed, he spent resisting the more intimate of Haimen's ministrations, regardless of Baelorn's presence. 

Haimen eventually seemed to surrender and he left, only to return shortly with a small, brown glass bottle and a spoon. Ilrhenir did not have time to gather his muddled thoughts before a spoonful of some bitter syrup was eased past his lips. Instantly it made his head swim, and Haimen explained that it was an easement for Ilrhenir's discomforts before seeing to the actual cleansing of his wounds. Haimen hoped it would also have the added benefit of making Ilrhenir drowsy and less resistant to his touch. 

But the disorienting quality to the analgesic only made Ilrhenir more distressed and determined to resist. So the tolerant acolyte continued to quietly reassure Ilrhenir, aware that the aftermath of extreme illness coupled with innate modesty was likely making his young patient distraught. All the while, he ignored Ilrhenir's anxious protests, cleansing and tending the youth's entire body. 

Of all Ilrhenir's wounds, the young healer lastly treated his bandaged hands, the pain of which indicated to Ilrhenir that full sensation had now returned. And as Haimen unwrapped them, Ilrhenir looked away suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut against the sight. Ilrhenir's broken fingers did not look overly bad for they were still tightly bandaged. His hands however were another matter. Ilrhenir's now revealed wrists were still raw and bleeding, his hands, while no longer so swollen as he remembered them, were black with bruising. But what truly disturbed him were the identical stitched wounds that ran the length of the heel of both his palms, wounds he could not remember receiving in battle. 

Though blind to the green color that had spread over Ilrhenir's features, Haimen could hear the frantic gulping as Ilrhenir tried to control the rolling nausea the sight of his hands had inspired. And the healer could sense Baelorn quickly searching for something, in case Ilrhenir was unsuccessful at mastering his stomach. Haimen instructed the large Rohannian to fetch a nearby basin and keep it near the boys chin while he quickly cleansed, applied a balm and rewrapped the youths hands. As he deftly carried out his attentions, Haimen explained in a calming voice that the orc bonds had cut off circulation too long and in order to prevent irreparable damage, it had been necessary to release fluid tension from Ilrhenir's hands. Hence the suture lines on each palm. Haimen assured Ilrhenir that they would mend very well, though they might look gruesome for a while yet. And then Haimen pulled Baelorn aside in order to let Ilrhenir compose himself . 

It was now one hour past his first waking and Ilrhenir was hard pressed to remain coherent as his weakness and the syrupy, slightly narcotic palliative combined to force him to surrender. Haimen had just allowed him more broth and as his thirst was finally eased, Ilrhenir found himself having to labor even harder at maintaining consciousness.

Haimen watched bemused. "Ilrhenir," said Haimen in a soft tone. "You have lain in fevered senselessness for three days now, exhausting yourself battling a death which hovered ever close to claim you, so do not resist sleep when it comes. You will mend the quicker for resting while you may and when your body indicates you should." Haimen carefully patted the youth's shoulder and then he took up his yew staff and gathered his supplies ambling slowly away.

It took a moment for what Haimen said to reach Ilrhenir fully, but when it did, in his astonishment, Ilrhenir found his voice for the first time since waking. "Three days!" He croaked hoarsely. The sudden exclamation irritated his throat, tickling a cough forth from him.

Baelorn laid a hand to his shoulder pleased that the boy had finally spoken. "Calmly Ilrhenir. I know all must seem strange after so long and deep a slumber, but it will not serve to excite yourself."

To Ilrhenir, it seemed only earlier _that_ very evening that he had been swept away in the dreadful slaughter. He grimaced and shivered at the memories evoked. "Baelorn, It…it doesn't seem that long ago." he whispered plaintively. To which Baelorn merely shrugged sympathetically. 

"How could you have let me sleep for three whole days?" Irhenir rasped.

Baelorn shook his head, smiling . "Ilrhenir, have peace lad. As was said, we could not have roused you even had we been forced to, indeed we thought you for the grave until this _very_ afternoon. When I brought you here the night of Theodred's fall, there were none, myself included, that thought the dawn would see you still drawing breath. But gladly, there are many here who now have cause to be impressed with your willful refusal to resign life. As I said upon the Ford, you are not easily slain and I am glad of it. Though you came as nigh the beyond as any man can, and not step across." 

"Has there been another battle?" 

"Ilrhenir…"

"Are we still at the Fords?" 

"_Ilrhenir_…"

"How…. is it …." A sudden, deep yawn interceded Ilrhenir's wondering. "…that you still live?" Still denying his exhaustion, he fought to keep his eyes open and several more yawns stretched forth from him in succession. 

"Ilrhenir, You may have those tales another time." Baelorn watched Ilrhenir continue to struggle against fluttering eyelids and he sighed. It was obvious the headstrong adolescent would not succumb willingly to the rest he needed to recuperate, despite his body's obvious insistence and so Baelorn laid his broad, callused hand upon Ilrhenir's damp brow, relieved to feel it cool, and stroked back over his head, smoothing the disheveled ebony hair. He did this with a mind to the way one settled an agitated horse, with low words and long, gentle strokes. And he smiled when after several such caresses, Ilrhenir's protests melted away and his heavy lids folded over the tired gray eyes. In mere minutes his breathing had deepened and Ilrhenir lay enveloped within a healing repose. "Rest well Ilrhenir." said Baelorn, and he rose to join his duty for the night.

From there onward, Ilrhenir was roused often to imbibe infusions and take small meals, and in between he slept heavily. Sometimes Baelorn was there when he woke and but predominately Ilrhenir was seen to by Haimen and the others whose duty it was to tend the ailing and wounded. 

And to his great discomfiture, they were very thorough in their care. 

Two evenings later, the fifth since the battle, Baelorn came and looked in upon the youth, and deemed that Ilrhenir was just strong enough to have the tale from him of what had happened since his fevered descent the night of the battle. 

Ilrhenir had just had his dressings changed and as the older man settled onto his customary stool, Ilrhenir told Baelorn the news that Haimen spoke of removing some of his stitches on the marrow. 

"Indeed! A progress to be sure." Baelorn could still see the flush upon Ilrhenir's pallid features from the bath he'd received as he lay there, and he decided to chide him a little. "I see that you've had a proper bath."

Ilrhenir rewarded him with a very hot blush, visible all over despite the still prevalent bruising. "I didn't think you'd notice, seeing as how all you Riders smell like your horses." 

Baelorn nearly roared with laughter. "Merciful Maker! It has teeth even when it is otherwise unarmed!"

"Amusing." Ilrhenir growled in deadpan, obviously irritated. 

"Truthfully lad, there is no reason for shame. I myself have been tended thusly before." Baelorn offered affably, scooting his stool closer.

"Yes, well, most recently it seems to be _my_ arse bared to the light, not yours!" He wished direly to change subject. "And I am unaccustomed to being unable to see to my own…uhm…needs." Again, his features darkened considerably in red.

Comprehension dawned for Baelorn. "Ah. Well. I suspect that they are merely concerned that you would fall over in a faint whilst attempting your ablutions and then they would just have to bathe you again." Baelorn couldn't help but laugh and eventually a very embarrassed Ilrhenir joined in with a mild chuckle of his own, much to the Eorling's surprise. 

"You help not, Baelorn. Oh, OW! " Ilrhenir gasped, his slight laughter having aggravated his various wounds. "Begone with you if you would harry me so."

"Lad, I will tell you this." Baelorn said, regaining some of his serious tone. "There is no place for modesty in war."

Baelorn watched as Ilrhenir considered this and nodded his acceptance shyly. "Now, would you have that tale you asked for two days gone?"

"Aye! The whole thing!" _Anything_ to redirect the subject.

Baelorn smiled and swiftly embarked on the tale, telling Ilrhenir of his coming upon Elfhelm when the cavalry were scattered, and of the long watch that first night after the retreat of Saruman's forces; which brought the eventual return of many of those Eorlingas who had been driven away. He then told of the dispatch to Helm's Deep the next morn as well as of the return messenger who bore back the elevation of Grimbold to Field Marshal until a time when Erkenbrand of Westfold could muster aid to stand against what they knew would come, a second invasion into Rohan. Baelorn also told of how Erkenbrand's missive had placed the Westfold infantry and what was left of Theodred's cavalry under the control of Grimbold but that the forces from Edoras' muster would remain under Elfhelm the one who'd led them into battle on behalf of Theoden. Baelorn explained to Ilrhenir that Grimbold's forces were still holding the Fords, defending, as tradition would have it, the main access into Westfold. Elfhelm in turn had argued, albeit without anger, for he and Grimbold were both honorable men and boon fellows, that the Fords were now no better than a place to pin the Rohirrim between Isengarders from _either_ side of the Isen, as the surprise east bank attack had proven. Elfhelm believed that the wiser course was to forfeit the Fords and retreat as a mass further along the Isen, there to split into two groups, one to engage the enemy when they assaulted and one to come around and outflank them, so that as a whole they could drive them into the Isen. Then they could retreat to Helm's Deep where the next invasion would surely lead, and they could face it in combined force with Erkenbrand. Saruman would not take Edoras without first razing the mighty Hornburg And they could buy Edoras much time by engaging the enemy in force near Helm's Deep. 

"But," Baelorn said with in an oddly expressionless tone. "Grimbold has remained adamant that his forces serve best holding the Ford, and some say, though not loudly, that it is Grimbold's desire not to let the enemy take the place of Theodred's falling that keeps him here. For he has placed the infantry along the west bank in two earthen forts and leaving the islet unmanned save for the vigilance of our fallen prince, Grimbold himself stands with the remainder of the cavalry holding the east bank. That is where I go this night for my vigil. Elfhelm has gone north on the east side of the Ford, above what is left of our garrison and holds there in an attempt to stem another attack along this side of the Isen." 

"Both Marshals hold that Saruman has yet to show his full force, and without reinforcements it will be a brief battle regardless of which Marshall has correctly anticipated the manner of the Isengarders' advance." 

Ilrhenir had listened with much empathy for Baelorn, and as the tale drew to a close, he patted Baelorn on the arm with one bandaged hand. "Then Lord Erkenbrand will simply have to come in time. I for one have just gotten used to the fact that I survived and I have no intention of dying for lack of bodies to stand with me." Ilrhenir's pale features lit in a warm smile, the first true smile that Baelorn had seen take his face. Not unlikely considering the extent of the troubles the lad had recently seen. But it was transforming to be sure. 

But if he had heard aright of Ilrhenir, the lad meant to see more battle ere he made the White City, and that would not do. "Ilrhenir, verily you showed your worthiness to the Eorlingas. But this fight is not yours and you had a course to follow ere you met up with those Uruks. Besides that, looking upon you I think that you lack the strength to stand with us again. I would not see you waste yourself on the battlefield. You would be wiser to take up again your pilgrimage to Minas Tirith before the next battle comes."

Ilrhenir's smile faded instantly. "How long before the next battle, Baelorn? One day?…Two?…A week at most? Right now, just as surely as I am unfit for battle, I lack the strength to fly south. And I would not, even if I could, though the idea of another battle like the one I just witnessed chills my heart." Ilrhenir's eyes met Baelorn's and in that moment the youth mirrored the exact same stubborn determination that had convinced Baelorn to leave Ilrhenir sitting that evening upon the shores of Isen. Ilrhenir channeled that same determination into his next quiet words. "When the time comes, Baelorn, I will either be fit enough to stand and fight or if I can not, then you will put your blade to me and end my life. Swear it Baelorn, for I would rather die than be taken by them again." 

Baelorn studied the drawn, pale form and accepted the truth in Ilrhenir's words. The youth would be unfit to travel at all for several more days, longer yet before he could manage an extended journey, and that was only if he had a mount or preferably was bourn on a wagon. On foot, he knew Ilrhenir had no hope of reaching Minas Tirith. "Ilrhenir, you have my word, my oath, that it will not come to that. We have our orders from Grimbold, which include many contingencies if all were to go ill. I will not leave you behind to be taken by the orcs again. If all our efforts go awry and we must retreat, then you shall go before me on Naisi, as you did before. Or more likely you shall be taken away with our wounded."

"Baelorn…" Ilrhenir was about to argue what would happen if Baelorn should fall in battle, or Naisi for that matter, or the retreat of the wounded were set upon by the enemy. But the stern expression on Baelorn's face brooked no such protest. The Rohirrim had given his word and so Ilrhenir would have to find faith in that. He nodded grimly at Baelorn.

Baelorn watched Ilrhenir for a few moments with grim satisfaction and not a little curiosity. "Ilrhenir, I know we have talked at length tonight and I see that you now grow weary, but I would know, why _did_ you fight and not flee when the first battle broke out? And do not frown at me so. It is a fair question for it is obvious to me that you had never wielded a blade before the other night, despite your tale that you meant to meet your father in Minas Tirith to aid in their warring. To leave this place…there would have been no shame in escape, you were very ill, poorly armed, and this was not your fight." Baelorn said the words but at the same time Ilrhenir could read behind them pride in the fact that he hadn't fled. Ilrhenir had never had a man be proud of him before and he liked the way it felt.

But Ilrhenir had been wondering the same of himself, and it came down to one thing. He turned his face away, shamefully. "It is not what you think. I would like to say that I am what you would think of me, that I am brave as the Rohirrim. But in truth, I am not. Something was taken from me by the orcs, and faint as the hope is of finding what was stolen, I cling to it, unable to relinquish its hold over me. When the battle is over, if I still stand, then I will search every last corpse on the field. Even the one's that were slain all the way west where you first…met me."

Baelorn was stunned. What could a northern commoner have that was so precious? What madness would lead Ilrhenir to crave it more than life? "Lad, what could you possibly own…."

"That would be worth all this!" Ilrhenir interrupted, gesturing emphatically at his many healing wounds. Ilrhenir wondered, with no small amount of shame if it were time to share with Baelorn, his past. His palms sweated underneath their wrappings and his heart pounded. A knotting, ill sensation started deep in his stomach. It seemed that it was time to share at least a part of his tale so that he would be allowed to stay and fight when the time came, if he were able. "My mother's name was Jenna." Ilrhenir said quietly, turning his gaze away from Baelorn.

Baelorn didn't mistake the heavily worded past tense. Now he understood. Ilrhenir must have been going to Minas Tirith to find his father because his mother was dead. "Slowly lad, we yet have time yet for this." Baelorn said softly.

"No, Baelorn. I think that time is the one thing that none of us has in surplus." Ilrhenir shifted uncomfortably. "I…she…My mother was killed this last fall." Ilrhenir closed his eyes and tried to even his suddenly shaking breath. "I never knew my father and we had no family to care for us, and well… you see, she was a…uh…well, she slept with men to….for…." He seemed unable to explain, so he was grateful when a look of understanding crossed Baelorn's features. Not having to find the right words made it easier for Ilrhenir to go on. "I suppose some would use the term 'whore', though she was never so base a thing to me. She was my mother. She was kind."

"Last autumn, a man came to her, and like always, she sent me from our little house while men visited there. When I came back…she was…she was unwell. I did not realize until after her death that she had been bleeding all along." Ilrhenir struggled weakly to sit up on the cot, and Baelorn let him do it on his own power, sensing it wrong to lay hands to the youth at this point, even in aid. When Ilrhenir finally managed to sit up, he was winded and sweating though he shivered heavily as he pulled the blankets tight about him. He slowly drew up his knees to his chest and focused his gaze on a distant point. And his voice took on a detached air. "Whomever he was, he had broken something within her, deep inside. And though she hid it from me I knew she hurt badly. I was afraid, Baelorn. I knew she was dying. But all I could think to do to ease her was collect the coins scattered on the floor, to keep her from having to look at them. The way they were scattered about, he must have pitched them at her on his way out." Baelorn cursed the ruthless animal that would treat anyone, even a prostitute, in such a fashion, though Ilrhenir seemed oblivious to his muttering and continued on in a low voice, still staring far off.

"She lay there all evening, getting more and more pale, until she was very nearly white. And then she just…_died_. But before that, she quietly told me many stories of a man who had _visited_ her periodically throughout the years. A man called Strider, whom she knew put her with child some seventeen years earlier. My sire…." At this point, Ilrhenir scratched absently at his healing hands and drew several deep breaths before continuing. "My mother told me she had never let him know of my existence and it made me angry with her. I thought that perhaps she was too shamed of me too ever tell him. But then she wept and I was sorry I'd accused her so. Mother said that Strider was a good man, but fierce and she had been afraid that he would take me from her, drag me off to be a ranger like himself, had he ever known that he had a son. She told me that perhaps it would have been better for me had she let me go with him, but that she had been selfish in her love of me. She whispered that he was now my only kin and that I should leave Bree to seek him in Minas Tirith where she last knew him to be headed, in order to stand with the rangers in defense of the city." 

Ilrhenir looked desolately up into Baelorn's face for the first time since unfolding his tale, and the Rohirrim was again struck with how young the lad looked to be. But had Ilrhenir not _just_ verified that he was some sixteen years old? Baelorn found it amazing that he should be no fuller upon his manhood than he was. He had guessed the lad a full two years younger, maybe three. But then again, if Ilrhenir was truly sired of the northern Rangers….He put aside such thoughts, listening as Ilrhenir continued. 

"I tried to clean her up, make her ready and when I went to dress her for burial, I realized she had nothing pretty to wear, not like the better women in town, and she deserved a beautiful dress. So I went to market the next morn to buy her a gown and hire a cart to take her to bury, all with the money that had been thrown at her along with a small bit I had earned at odd jobs around town. But every time I tried to spend the money, it seemed to cause a great twisting in my gut, and my heart ached anew. I wasn't able to spend the coin that she'd earned at the cost of her life. So I put it away in a small purse tucked inside my left boot. And then I went home." 

"A strange sense of coldness was come over my heart when I returned, and I neither wept nor really thought on her as anything but asleep. I seemed as someone else, not myself, as I gathered what little I had and then arranged her out on our bed." Ilrhenir's face was now buried in his folded arms, his knees still drawn up and he seemed to be talking more to himself than to Baelorn. 

"When I left that day I lit fire to the house. In my mind, I knew it to be wrong, bit I also knew that if I did not, then they would come for her and cast her away as was oft done with the bodies of women in her station. And I wanted no one else to have her or our little house." 

"I left with my few belongings and her coins and headed, as she bid me, toward Minas Tirith. I traveled south to find a man who doesn't know I exist and likely won't care when he finds out. So you see…" Ilrhenir unfolded his arms and gestured pleadingly at Baelorn. "It is more important for me to remain here. I was being a coward when I fled those orcs!" A sudden, wild despair shown in Ilrhenir's eyes, his voice rising. "I should have stayed to find her coins instead of running away! Those orcs who captured me stole her coins away and I have to get them back! They shouldn't be hard to determine amongst the other spoils. How common is northern coin down here?" Ilrhenir nestled his head back down, refolding his arms, shaking with the force of sudden, heavy sobs. Baelorn sat by as the youth long wept. All the while he waited, holding off until Ilrhenir was spent, from his grieving. And then he eased the boy back down to lie flat. 

He knew Ilrhenir would soon sleep. No stranger to loss himself, he knew that such pourings out of ones soul were exhausting. 

They also oft happened at the least opportune moments. If a man was lucky, then he was in private when the need to voice his sorrow was upon him. But otherwise it was best to have a trusted comrade at such moments of weakness. But Ilrhenir had no such companion and it was up to Baelorn to guard Ilrhenir's pride while letting him vent.

Momentarily, the quiet that had descended in the wake of Ilrhenir's grief was interrupted by the tapping approach of Haimen, who halted, seeming to feel something in the air about them. Baelorn rose swiftly, but gently and approached the blind healer, whispering low to him, though Ilrhenir took no notice. Their conversation was brief, but Haimen surrendered his armload and retreated off to some other duty, sadness wearing heavily upon him.

Baelorn took the bundle of clothes and looked on them with surprise. The clothing was Rohirric cavalry and actually of a size to fit Ilrhenir. The only members of the cavalry that were this size were standard bearers or couriers, sometimes as young as fourteen or so. Apparently, one of them had fallen in the last battle and Haimen had found another use for his uniform. Baelorn looked at the slightly stained, carefully mended tear on one of the tunics and then set the clothing next to Ilrhenir, before sitting himself down again beside the cot. He wanted to reach out a comforting hand to Ilrhenir, but refrained, unsure that it was appropriate to interrupt the youth's quiet grief. So Baelorn simply continued to wait as Ilrhenir composed himself while lying there.

"Ilrhenir," Baelorn said at length. "you are no coward. None here fault you for fleeing from the orcs, nor should_ you_ find fault with yourself. The worst of your injuries are not from the battlefield. They are from the cruelties you suffered at the hands of the Uruks." He waited a moment, but as expected, there was no reply. "Your mother would never have wanted her only son to stay and fight and assuredly die, over those coins. You are a good man Ilrhenir, and a _man_ you are. Not only because you are older than your form bespeaks but because your deeds during the battle were those of a man, your regards are those of a man. So, I tell you now as a man, your mother's honor lies not within those coins, nor her life neither. I know the ways of good women and both her life and honor are invested in you alone." 

There was a moment where they shared the small space on that isle of cots and weighed each other in silence, neither looking at the other. And then Baelorn finally pointed to the stack of clothing beside Ilrhenir and his face erupted in a mischievous grin. "Would you have me summon Haimen back to help you dress?" The sudden scorching look he received at the suggestion made Baelorn laugh. It let him know too that Ilrhenir was done with his grieving for now.

"I can manage Baelorn." Ilrhenir said, his voice acidic despite its weary weight. As Ilrhenir sat up and carefully swung his bare legs sluggishly off the cot, kneeling over to pull on the leggings, the room swam and he uttered a small groan at the wave of dizziness. 

And Ilrhenir would have toppled over if not for Baelorn catching his shoulders. 

"Indeed you can not. Here Ilrhenir, let me aid you." Baelorn took the breeches away and trampled any rebuttal with a stern glance. He guided the legs of the garment over Ilrhenir's bony feet and then paused for a moment, worried the young man would fall in a faint if he stood on his own power to draw them up. Knowing he would be met with resistance if he offered further help, Baelorn took matters in hand and yanked away the blankets covering Ilrhenir's naked lap, pulling him to his feet. He held on when, as anticipated, Ilrhenir's face drained and he swooned, and then Baelorn pulled up the breeches and cinched their waiststring. All this was done in a mere matter of seconds.

It was not until he had lowered Ilrhenir gently to the cot that the younger man was able to respond. "By the Valar, do you Southron folk know nothing of modesty?!" he gasped.

"By Eorl's blood, are you Northron folk all such fractious prudes?" Baelorn chuckled and pulled the light under-tunic over Ilrhenir's head, feeding his arms through before the lad could protest. "I told you before that there is no place for bashfulness in an army, Ilrhenir. Shying Modesty is for women and virginal youths, not warriors." Baelorn smiled to himself, relieved at knowing now that Ilrhenir had at least escaped the orcs without rapine for Ilrhenir was very reddened at the remark and in a fashion appropriate to one who was indeed still an innocent. Baelorn stepped back, setting the rest of the uniform aside, having given his first military lesson to Ilrhenir on the uselessness of such pretensions as bodily self-consciousness. 

The color of embarrassment dissolved finally and Ilrhenir looked away. And for a moment, despair warred with resolve in his features again. However, resolve won out, and he picked up the rest of the pile of clothes Baelorn had just set aside and looked at the tabard device. A hint of a wry smile tugged at his weary face. "So, I am a Rider of the Mark now? Do you not have to beg leave of the King to make me thus, or at least his Marshals? Not to mention the fact that you would need put glue in my saddle to keep me there and then hope the steed was more wise in such things than I?"

Baelorn laughed and scratched his blond beard. "They are clothes Ilrhenir, not a commission."

"I see. So when the attack comes, I will be on the ground whilst you ride about slashing at orcs?" He smiled and yawned.

"If you are not still resting from your wounds and lying in this very cot, a proposition most likely, then yes. Why? Would you rather be mounted? You said yourself that you lack the skill, and our mounts are few."

"I am aware." Ilrhenir grimaced at the memory of the slain horses. "It's simply that I owe you my life twice over now, and I suspect the debt will only get deeper ere this all ends. Especially with me on foot and you upon Naisi." Ilrhenir sighed, his lids drooping. It had been days since that first awakening when he had struggled so hard to stay awake, and by now Ilrhenir knew better than to fight the sudden and incontestable onset of sleep. So he laid back on the cot and relaxed. 

Baelorn frowned as he helped Ilrhenir settle the blankets back over him. "I had not yet had time to think on it as a debt, but it is one none the less, I suppose. Would it please you to have that debt settled? "

"I meant no offense Baelorn." Ilrenir yawned again. "But I am unused to dealing with men of much honor and I have found in the past that owing a favor to someone is best avoided." 

"Indeed Ilrhenir, but still I count only once that I saved you. When you fell upon the field and I pulled you up on my horse."

"Baelorn," Ilrhenir found himself looking up into the Rohannian's intense green-eyed gaze with a humbling amount of gratitude showing in his face. "The healers told me you brought me to them and made many earnest implorings on my behalf, when there were others that were more likely to survive the night and more valuable upon the field of battle. If not for your insistence, they likely would have written me off as too nigh death and moved onto more sensible employment of their skills."

Baelorn smiled. It was come upon the time for Baelorn to face his own truths. In battle, life could be cut short in an instant and it would be best to say things now, before the coming of the next clash with Isengard. Baelorn would not lie to himself, he had grown accustomed with an alarming swiftness to the strange lad that he had scooped up from the field of battle by mere chance. Truth be told, Baelorn had no child of his own, and widowed he was unlikely to have one soon. And Baelorn had always craved a family. Whether he liked it or no, this lad was already filling that hole. "If you would settle your debts to me Ilrhenir, then you have only to mark what next I say, and accept it as truth. I think that this Sire you are sent to seek is a man fortunate for having such a son. I deem that he will see the man in you that_ I _have seen since meeting you. And if he chooses not to mark his fortune, then folly take him to his grave childless, for you will have a place in _my_ household should you wish it." _There, that was not so hard_, Baelorn thought.

Ilrhenir jerked with surprise. "Your House?" He gaped. 

"Yes, Join my House. " Baelorn said quietly and he fidgeted for a moment under the weight of Ilrhenir's incredulistic stare. And then the large Rohannian stopped and a rakish grin took his face over. "I have, after all, gone to considerable trouble to keep you in one piece. I suppose if your father is too much the fool to take up where I will have left of when you reach Minas Tirith, then I can do no less than to resume my duties." 

Ilrhenir just continued to stare, wordless. His eyes were wide as though he had been stricken and Baelorn was a bit confused. "That is Ilrhenir, if you are interested. I am not the richest man in Rohan, but I am cousin to Lord Dûnhere, Master of Harrowdale. And my place is honorable enough." Baelorn chided himself for a moment, needlessly nervous.

He waited for Ilrhenir to respond but it was long ere the slender youth was able to speak. "I…Why…I don't understand. Why would you…."

Baelorn met Ilrhenir eye to eye. "Because," He began gravely. "I have come to know you enough that I would wish you to have some sure place in this world. And as yet, you do not. When the darkness has passed, our enemies are defeated and it is time to rebuild, then I would know that you have a place to be, if this man you seek, your Father, wants you not. Though, I will add that I am sure he will want you. A man would be a fool to not desire a son, one known to him or not." 

Ilrhenir watched Baelorn keenly at this point, sensing some hidden sorrow. "Baelorn. Have you a son of your own?"

Baelorn smiled sadly. "Alas, no. I am widowed and she passed from me a few years agone and we had no children."

"I am sorry, Baelorn" Ilrhenir whispered, unable to think of anything more substantial to say. 

"It is an old and well healed hurt lad. But it is true, I almost grieved worse that I had no part of her to raise as my own, than I did at her passing from me herself. I have been too busy since to court another woman overmuch."

"But I am not Rohannian Baelorn."

"I only offer you a home Ilrhenir. Every man needs a home."

At this point Ilrhenir could no longer put aside his weariness, and sensing that, Baelorn begged off to join his duties. It had been a long week for all, Ilrhenir included and Baelorn knew the boy had much to think on. 

Ilrhenir lay there only a few moments before sleep took him again, but he had just time enough to ponder why the man who had sired him couldn't have been more like Baelorn, a man of honor and compassion. Jenna would have done well with Baelorn. He had known Baelorn less than a week and already he admired and liked him well, already he worried for the tall, blond man and what the coming battle might bring. Ilrhenir came to the sudden decision that he would not just fight to survive when the orcs returned, he would fight to aid his friend, Baelorn son of Baeorl. Even if it meant dying here. _You will have a place in **my** household should you wish it…_Ilrhenir _did_ wish it, but he could not accept Baelorn's remarkable offer while he had yet to fulfill his mother's wish. He must first find Strider and tell him the words that had been screaming in his brain since Jenna's death or else he would never find peace. Strider needed to know how she died, that the Ranger could have prevented it had he but taken her as his wife, that he could have raised a son. And Strider _needed _a good fist up his nose! If Ilrhenir managed to find Strider, vent his venom at the man and survive the defense of the White City at his side, _then_ he would think on returning to Westfold and Baelorn's household, if Strider did not want him at his side.

lrhenir closed his eyes and dreamt that night of riding through the tall grasslands of the Westfold, at home on the back of a horse.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, Hello all. This chapter will see Ilrhenir headed toward the second attack on the Fords of Isen. 

Chapter 4: Premonitory Prelude

After leaving Ilrhenir to rest and possibly ponder his sudden offer, Baelorn immediately sought out Grimbold's tent where he asked audience to consult with his Marshal about Ilrhenir. "My Lord Marshal?"

Grimbold, a tall, stout man in his fourth decade of life, looked up from where he bent over a map of Western Rohan and waved Baelorn to enter. Lack of proper sleep and the cost of loss were etched heavily upon Grimbold's features, yet he presented a fierce, proud image standing there in his finely wrought Gondorian chain maille. But noble appearances aside, Baelorn could easily see upon Grimbold's broad shoulders not only the burden of Theodred's death but the impending decimation of their remaining companies if help did not come in time. 

"Have a seat Baelorn. I will hear from you what you need say of the boy. But be swift, for I need you holding the east bridge this night with the rest of your company." 

"Yes, Grimbold." Baelorn looked about and found a stool, not unlike the one he occupied periodically at Ilrhenir's bedside, and he sat down as his Marshal bade. "What I wish to convey of him is brief. As you know, against all reason, the youth survived. He wishes to stand with us, Grimbold, as he did in the last battle. He has a full sixteen years upon him, old enough to choose to fight. But he is of foreign blood, will you have him?"

The Field Marshal smiled grimly, offering Baelorn a ceramic goblet with a rich brandy in it. Baelorn gratefully accepted and sipped the sweet liqueur, relishing the warmth that slid down his chest chasing away the cold of the late February evening. "Always direct with your speech, as ever, good Baelorn. An honorable trait in any man, especially a warrior. As for the boy in question, it would seem that I have little choice in the matter. The King's law is clear and leaves little room for reinterpretation, even for such as I_this/I_ youth." When Baelorn went to protest, Grimbold raised a hand in warning. "But you mistake your fellows if you think to bring me the first news I've had of this I_Ilrhenir's/I_ daring involvement. Many were at his side to witness closely what you yourself missed when you were driven away and seeking the path to Helm's Deep. Several have already taken it upon themselves personally to make me mindful of his worth. It seems that though this Ilrhenir is new to the battlefield and even green with a blade, he has a particular instinct for it. Not to mention a survivor's hardy relationship with Dame Luck."

Baelorn smiled to know that he was not the only man there taken with the youth and he listened attentively as Grimbold continued.

"It has reached me from even the healer's tent that this Ilrhenir is in possession of a strength of will enough for three good men. All the same, I can not make him one of us Baelorn, for as your yourself have said, he is not of the Eorlingas. He is a trespasser in our lands." And then Grimbold cocked a brow in Baelorn's direction, awaiting the expected protest. 

But Baelorn sensed in his Marshal a seed of purpose and he waited for Grimbold's next words. So Grimbold continued. "However, because he is a stranger among us, neither can I send him away. As I said, the King's edict on the presence of strangers in Rohan, even prisoners escaped from Uruks, stands irrefutable. The young man Ilrhenir will stay with the healers until he is mended and then 'officially' he must be brought for judgment before Theoden in the Golden Hall." Grimbold paused then and sipped his own brandy, seeming to form his next words carefully. "Of course, as Field Marshal, I must make such decisions as befit the circumstances of our plight." Grimbold's flashed a knowing grin at Baelorn for just a moment.

Baelorn looked on his Marshal and raised a circumspect brow. "My Lord?"

"Baelorn, as you well know, here we are pressed against the very verge of our enemy and men are at a premium, too valuable to be wasted upon guarding one gravely ill boy. And Ilrhenir finds himself in as great a peril from our enemies as he might be from great Theoden and the suspicious gaze of Wormtongue. When next the battle comes I must have every blade to turn the enemy and it cannot be helped that we have too little guard to spare on the Icaptive youth/I. And should Ilrhenir, for lack of proper guard, manage a blade…Well" Grimbold pierced Baelorn with his sharp blue-eyed gaze. "If he were to use his blade to stand with us in our battles against Saruman, it will earn him the King's favor, despite the worst souring of Ilrhenir's disposition that Grima's dark counsel can fashion." 

Baelorn sat there a moment contemplating the permutations of Grimbold's words and a sly smile took his face.

Grimbold asked, "Baelorn, is there aught else to speak of? You are needed holding the bridgehead."

Baelorn stood, the smile still in place. "Actually, no Field Marshall, it is not. I also came seeking permission, after my rotation is up in the morn, to investigate amongst what spoils we have from the battle. The foul beasts who captured young Ilrhenir were most evil in their treatment of the youth. But worse to him than their treatment was the robbery of an…uh….heirloom. And he pines for it's loss. It is a simple thing and I ask only that I am allowed to seek it for him. I doubt that I will find it, but it would ease him to know one way or another."

Grimbold met Baelorn's eye. "It would seem that you have taken strongly to the lad, Baelorn."

"It is as you say, Grimbold, many of our men took note of him that night. Tis not everyday that a fevered, battered, half starved, naked youth armed only with a knife battles like a pit-fiend in a fight that is not even his own and yet manages to survive." 

Grimbold shook his head and snorted. "Indeed. And perhaps it was fate that put I_him/I_ with I_you/I_ that night. For I had deemed him so far lost that had he been in my keep, I would have given him good bidding on a peaceful journey to his afterlife. Yet you seemed resolved that he live, and indeed he did." Grimbold eyed Baelorn keenly once more and then relaxed, sighing. "You have my permission to seek his items, though I authorize no other confiscation. Now if that is all, Baelorn, report to your post."

"Yes, Field Marshal Grimbold." Baelorn bowed and retreated the tent, leaving Grimbold alone to ponder the strange lad that seemed to have impressed more than a few of his Riddermark with his singular feats of spirited madness.

Baelorn stood all night at his guard of the east bank with the others of his reconstructed company. And at dawn Grimbold's company again took rotation. On his weary way to find his morning meal he stopped by the cargo wagon where such spoils as the Riddermark had been able to collect where stored for the time being. The guards knew to expect Baelorn and so he was immediately allowed access. Baelorn spent the next several hours scouring the oddments, searching among blades, purses, weapons, armor and tack of all sorts. And though he found no northern coin whatsoever, he did find his knife, the very blade that he had lent Ilrhenir upon the eastern shore. And so having failed to find Jenna's coins, Baelorn retired to the healer's tent to share with Ilrhenir what scant tidings he had ere he went to find his rest.

When Baelorn entered, to his shock, he found that Ilrhenir had been moved back behind the partition to the rear of the tent. Haimen was bathing Ilrhenir's bare chest with slow movements, speaking in calming tones at the supine youth who seemed asleep, yet somehow oddly distressed. Haimen heard Baelorn's approach and turned, managing a warning glance even with his pale, unfocused gaze.

"Quietly Baelorn." Haimen whispered. "His fever returned in the night, and he is only now at rest, having been sorely distraught before."

Baelorn was greatly disturbed by this, for it had been two days past since Ilrhenir's fever had fled and he thought the youth beyond the worst of his trials. "Do his wounds not heal? I know that many of our folk have suffered from fevers in their injuries. The orcs of Isengard are a filthy lot."

"Nay, Ilrhenir's wounds heal well enough Baelorn, though in the days he lay fevered, fouled wounds were one of the reasons why." Haimen finished his ministrations and began very carefully dressing Ilrhenir in a fresh tunic. "This fever is perhaps the result of the illness still passing among the wounded men. Or perhaps Ilrhenir's previous exposure set some illness to work. Twas the wrong season for a lad to go to battle with naught but your cloak to wear." 

Baelorn snorted. "Is there a season where it I_is/I_ ever wise to go to battle thusly?" 

"No." Haimen frowned.

Baelorn shuffled in beside Haimen, waiting for a clearer explanation of Ilrhenir's condition. And when none came, Baelorn asked directly. "Tell me Haimen, will he mend in timely fashion? Ere long he will need be well enough at least to travel to Helms Deep."

"This would be of some concern even if Ilrhenir were not weakened so. The illness passing amongst the wounded is a harsh one, and in his state, I fear a bit for him. At least he still wakes and takes what curatives we have for such things." Haimen sighed and stood, stretching his long back. "We will tend him. But as before, this battle is his alone to fight."

Baelorn watched Ilrhenir lay there mildly tossing in his sleep, bathed in perspiration. "He seems uncomfortable, Haimen." 

"Unlike before, he is restless with I_this/I _fever. And I think that he is not always quite sure of where he is. Even so, he has not been difficult to soothe, though the doing of it lies in deception. At worst, he seems to think that he is home. But a low voice convinces him that his mother is nigh and this seems to calm him greatly."

Baelorn nodded, understanding, and he took up a vigil of sorts at Ilrhenir's side. 

Throughout the day, Ilrhenir woke occasionally, yet seemed barely aware of the goings on about him. For Baelorn, the day passed slowly as he patiently waited at Ilrhenir's bedside, struggling with his own weariness. But as it drew onto evening, the healers were able to break Ilrhenir's fever. And when dusk fell, Ilrhenir finally came to himself slowly. 

Baelorn, having never gone to his pallet that day, had dozed where he sat upright on the stool beside Ilrhenir. So when the lad feebly called out to him, Baelorn nearly toppled off his narrow seat as wakefulness rushed to him. The Rohirrim regained his composure quickly though, and he settled his hand on Ilrhenir's brow, grinning at its coolness. "I am a busy man Ilrhenir." He spoke softly in a chiding tone, yawning. "And this day was not wisely spent." 

"I….I…ap..pologize, Baelorn." Ilrhenir whispered hoarsely. "It seems I slept the day away. And such dreams I had….I would not wish to have them again." He shivered.

Baelorn looked fondly down on Ilrhenir and clapped a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Be at ease, your dark dreams are passed now, along with the fever." 

"Fever?" Ilrhenir asked quietly not quite awake yet.

"Indeed. You began to give us cause to wonder if Haimen's skills were all that they seemed." 

And then, as Baelorn's own stomach complained, the Rider paused to wonder if Ilrhenir was hungry also. He looked beyond the pale partition out the far door to the healer's tent gauging the time of day. The shadows beyond seemed long and he knew it must be late. "It is time I had my dinner before I go on watch, Ilrhenir. Would you have a meal as well?" 

Ilrhenir stretched and blinked trying to wake. And after considering his stomach for a moment, he nodded slowly and Baelorn went in search of someone to prepare the youth an appropriate meal while he went out to Owain to fetch his own. He returned with his dinner shortly, to find a healer helping Ilrhenir with his eliminations and he turned away, lending them privacy just in time to see Haimen happily working his way through the maze of cots with Ilrhenir's own meal.

"You know, good Haimen. It is truly a wonder that you can navigate this course of sickbeds without tripping and loosing the tray you bear." Baelorn smiled rakishly.

"Ah Baelorn….Tis not so hard, and I will continue to do so unless someone very cruel moves the beds around." Haimen winked.

They both chuckled and waited until the acolyte tending to Ilrhenir withdrew with a covered pan.

As Haimen set aside Ilrhenir's dinner and went about inspecting the youth, feeling gently about his neck, listening closely to his breathing, Ilrhenir finally lost patience with the tactile nature of his care. "Do you mind!" he implored in a raised, hoarse tone, hot with irritation.

"Mind what Ilrhenir? Have I pained you in some way?" The amusement on Haimen's face belied the seriousness of his tone. 

"No! But if one more person tests my brow, or listens to my breath or touches aught below my waist, I am going to fetch Baelorn's sword and give you all such ills of your own to tend that you will all be inclined to give Ime/I peace!" Baelorn and Haimen struggled not to laugh, but failed, despite Ilrhenir.

"Ilrhenir, I would love to watch you take the healers to task, but I am afraid that I must eat my own meal quickly and then go, ere I am late for my duty. So like it or not, you must let Haimen help you with yours." Baelorn smiled broadly and shook his head. He was coming to think that the lad had two primary states of being; unconscious and indignant.

"I can manage myself." Ilrhenir said curtly.

"Indeed not," Haimen goaded gently. "I think that your fever today has fled to fuel your temper, but not your strength." And he lifted a cup of something warm and salty smelling to Ilrhenir's lips.

"I seem to remember you mention a fever as I woke?" Ilrhenir looked questioningly at Baelorn as he took the cup from Haimen, bringing it to his lips by his own power. And suddenly he was aware that he was again exceptionally thirsty.

"Aye lad," Baelorn said. "As I said, you took fevered again. I'm told it was in the wee morning hours and we feared you were in decline. But no, now that I see you spouting venom at your allies, I think your fever has gone, but it has taken your comportment with it." Baelorn admonished gently, and Ilrhenir shifted uncomfortably, coloring pink at the friendly reproach.

"I'm sorry Baelorn." He said earnestly into the cup, trying to sip slowly but too thirsty to really be successful.

"Tis not I you were discourteous with." Baelorn held onto the role of gently mentored criticism.

Ilrhenir turned to the acolyte standing near. "I…I'm…sorry Haimen. I realize how well I've been tended, and I'm very grateful. I just wish you all knew how…Well, I mean it's….I'm not used to…" Ilrhenir blushed again and Baelorn was amazed that the youth wasn't already desensitized to the healers' routines. It had only taken Baelorn his first serious injury when he was a young rider, to lose such shyness. He wondered what it would take to dissolve Ilrhenir's extreme coyness and then decided that it was no experience of war he ever hoped the young man would be subjected to. 

Haimen smiled and waved off the apology, retreating to let the determined Ilrhenir have his supper with Baelorn. 

Baelorn settled in with his own meal next to Ilrhenir's cot and looked first at the young man's tray which consisted of several cups of tea and broth and a bowl of oat mesh and then at his own dinner and offered some food over to Ilrhenir from his bowl. "Here, have a piece of this meat. I don't imagine that they think you're ready yet, but I_I/I _think you are. How long, if you don't mind me asking, were you with the orcs, you are mightily…uhm…spare?"

Ilrhenir picked out a small piece of roasted meat from Baelorn's wooden bowl only to have it retrieved by Baelorn and traded for a bigger piece. He tasted it cautiously and then gratefully he devoured it. Followed by his oats, and a boiled potato also out of the older man's dish. After a while Ilrhenir answered. "I I_think/I_ I was captive three days and nights. I escaped on the morning of what would have been the fourth day since being taken, the day of the battle." He thought a bit more on that and then nodded. 

Baelorn was puzzled, he would have guessed that it had been somewhat longer considering the underfed state of Ilrhenir. "Ah, well, I wondered. The rest of the trip south from Bree… was it also such an adventure?"

Painfully full, Ilrhenir sunk down into his pillows and groaned. "That was wonderful, but I over-ate, terribly. And no, the road was frightening and lonely and very cold, but I avoided people whenever I absolutely could, and so managed to also avoid most dangers as well. Indeed there were some close calls, but my biggest problem was getting food. I know not how to hunt, nor do I possess the tools with which to do so. Often, I made do with little, or threw caution away and traded some meager possession. When I happened upon farms, occasionally I stayed on for a week or so, to help with harvest, and was traded food to travel with for my labor. But it was never enough to last for long and I could just never bring myself to spend those coins, not even to eat." Ilrhenir closed his eyes and rubbed his stomach.

__

IAh, those damn coins again/I, Baelorn thought. "Ilrhenir." 

"Yes Baelorn?" 

"Speaking of those coins, I looked among our spoils for your purse this day. But I found no northern currency." He watched closely but Ilrhenir's expression stayed passive.

"I see. Well, no matter. I will find them." 

"Ilrhenir…." 

"Baelorn," Ilrhenir interrupted with a chill tone. "I thank you for the meal, but don't you have a guard duty soon? I wouldn't want to cause you to be errant"

"Aye, and I must be about it." Baelorn sighed deeply. Long a man of military mind, he knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Good even Ilrhenir." 

"Good night, Baelorn." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite a bone deep weariness that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in him, Ilrhenir had been oddly impatient to be out of the healers tent early that next morning, even if for only a little while. It was morning of the seventh day since Theodred's fall and as dawn began to roll up over the horizon, Ilrhenir sat on the back of a supply wagon with blankets wrapped tight around him, grateful for the solitude and hoping that it was a while yet ere he was missed. The irony of the fact that exactly one week ago he had witnessed the coming of dawn, savagely strapped to just such a cart hadn't escape him. In fact, as the dawn was born bright in the east, it seemed to suit Ilrhenir's apprehensive mood to mark the week's passage in such paradoxical surroundings.

He scratched at the stitches on his itching palms through the light bandages over them, and then at the sutures at his temple where the orcish arrow had narrowly missed skewering his brain. The fever yesterday had delayed the removal of the sutures, but today Haimen would pull most, if not all of the myriad sets of slender, black-silk caterpillars that were scattered across his body. A tally taken, Ilrhenir had no limb, no body part not decorated at least twice with the signs of the healers' sewing skills. Some were sword wounds that had healed clean and would leave only thin pale scars, but others were the worst of his torments from his captors, vicious claw marks that had delved into his flesh and would leave more livid tokens of his time with the orcs. 

Ilrhenir greatly anticipated the stitches being clipped and pulled from him later this day. He hoped their removal would lessen the odd feelings of revulsion at the sight of the carefully seamed injuries. He had to admit that the healers had done fair work, but every time he laid eyes upon the numerous sewn injuries he felt uncomfortable, humiliated, like some spoiled rag doll haphazardly repaired. 

Ilrhenir shifted his weight gingerly on the back of the cart and was painfully reminded it was the less visible injuries that would continue to speak to him of the perversion of Isengard. Not only would his strength be long in returning, but upon inquiry, Haimen had regretfully announced to him that the most bothersome of his injuries, a set of very cracked ribs and bone deep contusions on his hips might bother Ilrhenir for many months yet. Both injuries had occurred from the savage kicks he'd received and would plague Ilrhenir long after the bruising subsided. So he was _not_ eager to again take up travel on horseback with Baelorn. 

But some strange, grave portent in his mind dimmed his humor, warning that only too soon would he be fleeing atop Naisi again, bracing himself against the pound of the steeds mighty hoof beats, which would ricochet painfully through his entire form. 

As Ilrhenir looked out into the ashen morning sky, sweat beaded upon his features and he imagined that he could actually hear the clash of steel and the thrumming rhythm of the passage of many horses. And in his mind swirled chaotic images of blood and fire and fearful enemies battling madly. If he had not had his eyes open and been able to witness all that was about him, then Ilrhenir would have believed himself swept away in battle again, so strong were the sensations of devastation clamoring through his consciousness.

So it was that Ilrhenir was too immersed in his grim musings to notice whenBaelorn came upon Ilrhenir as the cavalryman came off his nightly guard duty. The older man took in the unexpected sight of Ilrhenir sitting on the wagon tail, a marked pallor still painfully obvious under the discoloring of all the bruises. The youth seemed obviously burdened, his brow furrowed as he focused on some dark thought or another, with blankets pulled about him and his shoulders hunched. Baelorn watched with a cocked brow as Ilrhenir's even breath made white curling clouds in the crisp morning air, and he was even more surprised to note the bare blade propped at Ilrhenir's side, grasped tightly in one of the lad's thickly bandaged hands.

Baelorn broke himself away from watching and approached. "Good morn, Ilrhenir. A grim way to meet the dawn, threatening it so. Think you?" He gestured goodnaturedly at the drawn blade. But there was no response from Ilrhenir so he continued on. "Our Brother the Sun would rather you stayed warm and hidden in the healer's tent than sit without, and greet him so insolently with your blade drawn and a storm brewing upon your brow." Baelorn chuckled, trying to lighten Ilrhenir's obviously dark disposition, but looking into the youth's unfocused, distant gaze, he suddenly wondered if something was truly amiss, for Ilrhenir seemed too distant.

He watched and thought a moment, and couldn't imagine the healers letting the Ilrhenir out to sit here in the cold. No, he'd wager Ilrhenir was playing absconder and given time, the healers would come looking for him. The question was, why I_was/I_ the youth out here in the cold and with his sword. 

Ilrhenir barely looked at Baelorn, a deep shiver of apprehension running through him. This only gave Baelorn more cause to worry and the Rohannian slid his large hand to the back of Ilrhenir's neck and found it very damp and too cool. "Ilrhenir, all humor aside. You'll catch a chill out here and then Haimen will be wroth." 

It was long ere Ilrhenir finally blinked and focused, seeming suddenly to notice Baelorn for the first time. And a look of startled confusion joined Ilrhenir's abrupt awareness of the older man's presence. "Baelorn, I…uhm…uh….Good morning." Ilrhenir rubbed his brow and shook his head, dispelling the last of the shadows from his mind. And he blushed at being caught unawares outside the tent.

Baelorn watched him, his eyes narrowing keenly. "Good morn, Ilrhenir. Does Haimen know you're about?" He knew the answer even as he asked the question.

Ilrhenir's blush deepened and he averted his eyes. "Ah, no. I just needed…well, I wished a few moments. You know, to reflect upon the last few weeks."

Despite Ilrhenir's sudden clarity, Baelorn wasn't convinced he was well. "I see. Well you should go within all the same. I am amazed you made it as far as this on your own." 

Ilrhenir didn't move to rise but he did pull the blade upon his lap and frowned down at it suddenly. 

Baelorn, noticing that Ilrhenir did not follow, turned back. Wondered at the youth's oddness he held his scolding and was patient. "Ah, You found Ethrid's blade. If you will come along now, I will see to getting you a belt to wear it properly with. There is a skill to belting a blade at the right angle to draw it free."

Ilrhenir smiled hollowly but ignored the instruction. "I am grateful. But why do you call it Ethrid's blade? I had thought it to be the blade I picked up from the ground during the last battle and indeed I found it today with the rest of this uniform where it had been laid before. This Iis/I the same blade I picked up from the battlefield, is it not? Or is it on loan from another Rohirrim, like your knife was?"

"Despite my having lent you my knife, Ilrhenir, men do not often loan their blades. This one is a gift to you of sorts, or rather, you are granted ownership of it from he who would have inherited it." Baelorn drew Naisi to the cart and sat down beside Ilrhenir on the tailgate, watching the young man closely. It was more and more obvious the youth had no business being about as yet.

"Inherited it?" Ilrhenir was still confused. Though the Rohirrim seemed to bear like swords amongst most of them, he was _sure_ this was the one he had retrieved off the body of the fallen Eorling. "It seems rather indistinct. How do you know this?" Ilrhenir turned the blade over in his hands looking for a mark of ownership and found a small set of runes etched along the base of the blade. "Is this the name of Ethrid upon it?"

"No, that is the mark of Koathe, one of the smith-masters who forge the swords of the Eord." At that, Baelorn drew and turned up his own sword to show the similar mark upon the blade of his weapon, running his calloused thumb gently over the etching. It was different slightly than the mark upon Ilrhenir's blade. "This is the mark of Koadoreth, Koathe son. Sons of their line have been fashioning our blades since the time of Eorl and Cirion. We do not put our own names upon our blades, only the mark of their craftsman is upon them."

"Our blades are our companions," Baelorn continued. "and as such we tend them carefully. In war, three things will bring you home alive if well tended, your horse, your sword and your sword-brothers. I will instruct you in the care this blade, even as I teach you to look after a mount later on. As for tending the third, well, by standing with us in the last battle you have done so already, and that is why you were gifted the blade. You took it up from the slain form of Ethrid, who fell in battle upon the Fords seven days gone. This was witnessed in battle by his brother Fathrid, who was nigh when his brother was slain and would have inherited this blade. He passes it to you, Ilrhenir. Our ways are a bit foreign to you, but I deem that you perceive honor better than many and so I tell you, this honor bestowed you is great. Be mindful of it." 

Ilrhenir sat there, his mouth slack in awe. "I…I am not worthy of this, if it is as you say. I thought it a loan, not unlike the uniform." 

Baelorn shook his head. "Swords are valuable and necessary upon the road these days and you would do well to acknowledge the honor granted you and not refuse it. Now come. Haimen will be wondering after you and you have been too long from the warmth of the tent and the ease of your sickbed." Baelorn slowly slid from the cart, weary himself. He had not been to bed in two days and nights. The only sleep he had received was napping upright on the stool at Ilrhenir's bedside the day before. 

Baelorn wished now that he had traded out his watch and slept, rather than going straight to his next shift last night. And even now the Rohannian would have been very happy to skip his breakfast in order to seek his bed pallet all the sooner. But Baelorn knew the wisdom of supping first. He would escort Ilrhenir to the tent, situate Naisi and then take his meal with him to his rest.

Ilrhenir himself had to admit he also was very exhausted now. He had far outstayed his strength and though the grotesque collage of battle visions that had haunted him earlier were now completely gone, in their wake Ilrhenir felt his limbs liquid and his thoughts wearily detached. Ilrhenir contemplated dimly that it had been a mistake to venture forth from the healers tent as yet. He was barely aware of Baelorn's arm half guiding, half supporting him as he steered drunkenly towards the healers tent. 

Baelorn cursed under his breath and in order to more quickly navigate his wobbly, limping charge, he handed off Naisi to an unsuspecting passing soldier. It was obvious to him that Ilrhenir was quickly reaching the end of what little strength he had. Grimly Baelorn directed the youth, speaking quietly to him in terse tones. "No more of this Ilrhenir, not until the healers say you may be about. I Iwill/I have your word on this."

Ilrhenir did not answer Baelorn, in fact did not hear him. For suddenly, a violent shudder took the youth, the strength of which ripped him from Baelorn's unsuspecting grasp and Ilrhenir collapsed on the ground, his legs no longer able to hold him. Baelorn stared frozen a moment in horror and shock as great tremors began wracking Ilrhenir's form. Then he gathered his wits and called to the man he'd handed Naisi off to, ordering him to summon the healers. Baelorn dropped to kneel near Ilrhenir and spoke his name loudly, all the while attempting to still the youths convulsive spasms. Baelorn's heart raced for he had seen a man do this only once before, long, long ago in Edoras, after the man had suffered a blow to his skull falling off his mount. Baelorn also remembered, with sick dread, that the man had died the following day.

At that same instant Ilrhenir's wide eyes, staring sightless, rolled back in his head, and the image of a great dark host enveloped his mind. Fell they were, and in greater number than he could have imagined possible and the sight of them made his heart plummet. They were comprised of endless lines of orcs, some marching, some mounted on the great wolves he had witnessed before And there were Dunlanders too; all brandishing fire as well as blades, merciless and swift and before them were decimated the forces of Grimbold and Elfhelm. As Ilrhenir lay grasped in the throws of the cruel paroxysm, unknown to himself, he cried out shrilly. "They are come!" 

This warning he repeated loudly, many times ere the fit passed. And like boiling water steadily backed off the heat, his body's fitful thrashing gradually lessened. When it was over, he lay there upon the cold, hard earth, panting and trembling, wondering why he felt so very dizzy and weak. Ilrhenir slowly opened his eyes and Baelorn's concerned visage focused into view. Ilrhenir smiled sheepishly at him, whispering in a disoriented voice. "I…I seem to be laying down, Baelorn. I wonder how that came about." And then his grey eyes closed and he knew no more.

Baelorn gently hoisted Ilrhenir onto the stretcher brought by a pair of acolytes, watching as they quickly transported him to the large, sage tent. 

Sighing heavily Baelorn then picked up Ilrhenir's blade and put it with his own belongings, tying it to his saddlebags. He took Naisi and settled the horse before turning his attention next to news of Ilrhenir. He went straight to the healer's tent but Haimen, grimfaced, would not let him enter beyond the partitioned area where Ilrhenir was still housed from yesterday. Haimen would only say that the youth rested deeply, and insisted that Baelorn seek a meal and bed himself. 

All counted, it was an hour before Baelorn was able to sink gratefully into his bedroll and when he did, it was longer yet ere his mind was settled enough after the events of that morn to accept sleep. Eventually, weariness claimed him, his lids grew heavy and his thoughts drifted off. 

And just as the odd dreams of early slumber began a welcome dance through his mind, Baelorn heard the horn blow, and like the rest of the camp, he was roused.

He loosed a curse and summoned his weary limbs to obey. News spread quickly, and it was not long after receiving his orders that Baelorn heard the first signs of the enemy with his own ears and saw in the distance a wide, dark line upon the expanse of the western gap beyond the Fords. He joined the ranks of Eord already on stand at the east bank, blade drawn, and as they saw the mass orcish advance come into clearer view, Baelorn realized that Ilrhenir had been right two hours gone. 

Baelorn whispered the words, quietly echoing Ilrhenir's anguished cry, "They are come." 


	5. Chapter 5

b

Major angst warnings! P

Chapter 5: And So Came the Battle Within P

Still very out of sorts from the violent current of his convulsive illness earlier that day, Ilrhenir was quite confused and more than a little irritable. And Haimen was catching the worst of his mood. P

"I won't go away with you!" Ilrhenir surprised himself with the vehemence of his own words. P

Haimen looked up sharply, as though his pale blue eyes could actually see to meet Ilrhenir's hostile gaze. All the while, the healer's hands deftly and gently caressed the flesh of Ilrhenir's abused hands, carefully guiding the thin tipped scissors to snip each tiny, black silk suture along his palms. "You must Ilrhenir. The enemy is upon us and we cannot hold out indefinitely. Grimbold has ordered the evacuation of the wounded to Helm's Deep and we I_must/I_ obey, lest we provide fodder for spoil when the forces of Saruman advance." Haimen stated this matter-of-factly in a soft but stern tone. p

Despite his verbal outbursts, Ilrhenir held very still while the young healer completed his work. Haimen had already removed all of the other sets of stitchings and the ones upon Ilrhenir's hands were the last to be tended. And as the deft snip and tug carried on, Ilrhenir contemplated some way to force his stay. "I will not go away with you.", he said again, but more quietly this time. P

"You must come away. And it must be soon. Even now we arrange for the tent to be taken down swiftly." Haimen admonished patiently while he washed Ilrhenir's palms, careful of the newly healed scars. P

"I will **not**!" Ilrhenir protested loudly yet again. Though despite his protests, Haimen could feel the tension in his charge's posture slowly ebb as Ilrhenir's limited strength gave way. P

Haimen eased the unwilling youth back into a recline on the cot, and felt his way up over Ilrhenir's shoulders to the lad's face, which Haimen then clasped gently in his large hands. "You will." The healer insisted quietly, his soft voice soaking into Ilrhenir. P

Ilrhenir surrendered, internally cursing his weakness as he peered up sleepily at Haimen who was preparing to rewrap the youth's mending fingers. P

"But I can't Haimen" Ilrhenir whispered hoarsely, hating the breaking of his voice that robbed him of his argument. And he was momentarily glad that Haimen was blind, lest he see the tears that brimmed perilously in the corners of his eyes. He would I_not/I_ weep like some desperate child. He would hold his frustration in check and convince Haimen like a man would, with the force of his words. P

But man or not, Ilrhenir was weary and he wondered despairingly how he could possibly carry on with such weighted limbs and so little strength, even if he I_did/I _manage to convince Haimen to let him stay behind. I_No matter/I_, he thought. II must do it anyway./I So Ilrhenir mastered his tone after a moment, and in a calm, low voice said, "Haimen, you cannot take me away with the wounded. I have to stay." P

Haimen paused for a long while, seeming to bore straight through Ilrhenir with his sightless gaze. And then at length he sighed and spoke; kindly but with purpose. "Ilrhenir. Darkness has at times a call that is insatiable. And light has oft a call that's hard to hear." The acolyte settled Ilrhenir's hands gently back across his breast. "But you must listen for it all the same, and not throw yourself into your despair." P

Ilrhenir did not answer. Not only because he was sorely confused and embarrassed by Haimen's words, but also because he was suddenly becoming near overcome with the return of numerous fell memories. As though Haimen's mere words could open the floodgates staving off the memories of the images of Saruman's forces crawling like angry, caustic swarms over the Rohirrim in a great flood of hatred. The images come to him during his convulsion had returned, and they stole Ilrhenir's air, making him gasp great ragged breaths. Waves of premature grief and horror shuddered through him to the rhythm of the images of dying Rohirrim strumming through his consciousness. P

"Ilrhenir." Haimen called out to him, concerned by the sound of the youth's harsh breath and the sudden flavor of tense anxiety in the air. P

Haimen quickly felt for and took hold of the boy's face again and turned it to him stroking his thumbs firmly over Ilrhenir's cheeks. He could feel the chaotic misery rolling off the boy like a palpable heat and the young acolyte decided it was time to lend his own perspective to the morning's distressing circumstances. But the youth did not answer. "Ilrhenir!" Haimen called louder. P

Finally Ilrhenir jerked and blinked and seemed to focus upon Haimen's voice, and then on his touch. "Ye…yes, Haimen." Ilrhenir laid there tense and tight for several moments until he finally heaved one last deep breath and relaxed upon the cot. And an even greater weariness stole over him. "I'm sorry, I just seem to keep getting lost in my thoughts today." He shuddered slightly. P

Haimen paused and released the youth's face, sure now of what he had only suspected before from Baelorn's account of the morning. "Ilrhenir, I must ask you a question." P

"Yes?" Ilrhenir marshaled his weary, confused mind and tried to compose himself, staring up at the blind healer who seemed to him suddenly very oddly young and old, all at once. He had to stay awake. If he fell asleep now, then he would surely wake later to find himself with the waines of wounded far upon the road. P

"Why do you insist upon staying behind?" Haimen's voice was firm and forward, as though he was demanding some hidden truth being concealed from him and Ilrhenir hardly recognized the tone of the usually congenial healer. P

"I…I do not understand." Ilrhenir squirmed in renewed irritation. He did not want to have this conversation again. P

"Do you not?" Haimen asked bluntly, there was no time to waste. P

Haimen knew suddenly there was no time now to guide the lad gently to an understanding. He had to speak plainly now before it was too late for him to do so. "Why are you so adamant to remain here? Why insist upon such a dangerous course when your road has already been so dark? Why not travel ahead of this storm of hatred to a haven within reach? It would be easier on you and well deserved. Many who are hail and strong will fall this day and yet you, despite your injuries seem convinced that you will number amongst the living and sound when the battle is done. Why?". P

"I…I'm not sure that I I_will/I_ survive Haimen, but well, I need to find my…." P

"Your mother's coins?" Haimen interrupted, sounding almost irritated for the very first time that Ilrhenir could remember. "Baelorn has bespoke me of your tale, Ilrhenir. And I tell you now; your mother's coins are the shadow that blankets your truth. Tell me your truth, Ilrhenir." P

Ilrhenir could not fathom where the healer was going with this course of questions, or rather, perhaps he did and feared to follow. Either way he was uncomfortable with the sudden, odd change come over Haimen. P

Haimen considered Ilrhenir for a moment and then sighed in resignation. "Perhaps you truly cannot see it. Perhaps this once Ilrhenir, I_I/I _will tell you your truth. This morning, you had a convulsion." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, so you have said." Ilrhenir was suddenly wishing Haimen would just either pack him away on a wagon of wounded men, or go away and let him summon himself forth as he was able, to join the soldiers. Anything to be done with this odd turn to their conversation. p

"It was more than that, as you well suspect, Ilrhenir. It was then, during your fit, that you saw what others have only just begun to witness the beginning of. Much has passed since then, whilst you have lain resting of your vision." Ilrhenir went to interrupt, and Haimen held up a hand to halt the denial. "A vision it was, deny it not. Much that you saw before is upon us now, beyond the eastern bridgehead. Though it has been mere hours since you first fell ill, already the Eorlingas have tasted of the pall of the battle that rings fresh in your own memory." P

"Haimen…" Ilrhenir whispered mournfully, at a loss to say anything more. P 

After a moment passed, Ilrhenir found his voice again and turned his eyes from Haimen as though the young healer could meet his gaze. "Twas a fit, Haimen…no vision. Twas nothing more than the painful result of my poor head having been bashed in a bit much of late." Ilrhenir was not yet sure why Haimen's preposterous suggestion would disturb him so, but it did. I shook him harshly. "I am no seer." He whispered, "no mystic." P

Haimen sighed in sympathy. "For all that you would deny it, you already know the truth, Ilrhenir. A vision it was." P

Ilrhenir opened his mouth to object again, but Haimen turned a watery blue, impossibly focused gaze upon him that banished Ilrhenir's words, dismissing them like mere mist before the bright morning sun. "Perhaps it came too late to warn the Rohirrim, Ilrhenir. But Oracular vision does not always serve as a warning of what will come. Sometimes it comes if only to allow the recipient the opportunity to see… truly see. And that clarity can be the sole purpose of the vision. The illumination of a path that lay shrouded before." Haimen smiled gently, his youthful features poorly masking an old sorrow that Ilrhenir had no time to contemplate amidst the strange barrage of Haimen's words. P

Ilrhenir needed to flee the insane conversation. "You speak as though…as though I were someone who is…. As though I Ineeded/I to see! I do Inot/I deserve to see such things!" Ilrhenir stuttered through his protests turning too swiftly away from the healer for his much abused body. He whimpered at the sudden, sharp aches, wishing he could push away Haimen's oppressive presence. "I do not want this. I refuse it! " P

"Tis not the way of things Ilrhenir." Haimen said softly, laying a hand upon Ilrhenir's shoulder. He shook his head gently and patted the shoulder. "You cannot refuse your visions, though I doubt not that you will continue to wish the gift gone ere you learn to accept it as part of yourself." P

"Gift?" Ilrhenir choked burying his head in his arms. "No gift is this!" P

Haimen wished that he could assure Ilrhenir that his ability was not to be as harsh or burdensome as it had shown itself to be today, but he had no such guarantees. All the healer could do was hope to help Ilrhenir find his path in the short time he had to do so. "Would you know what I see for you, Ilrhenir?" P

There was a long pause and then Ilrhenir nodded, not looking back at the healer. P

Haimen smiled wearily, "I am not as blind as I might appear, Ilrhenir. There are times when I see more clearly than the sharpest, most keen marksman amongst the Eord. Such clarity of….ivision/I is your lot as well I think. But as I said, you must learn to heed the sun amid the dark storm. To seek it, even when all seems without hope. And your visions can help see that path of light, no matter how hidden. P

Ilrhenir turned to him then, a look of such incredibility on his face that Haimen would have laughed had he been able to see it. "This Icurse/I of vision, showed me no light!" Haimen might easier have convinced Ilrhenir that he was actually a billygoat disguised as a Breelander. "I saw no light Haimen, just death! Death gone mad." He whispered. P

"I know well what you saw. But perhaps it will help if you knew what I saw. Mayhap that knowledge will give you hope." P

Ilrhenir lay there looking up at the young Rohirric healer not knowing what to expect. And then Haimen gently laid a hand flat upon Ilrhenir's breast and closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. It was long ere he spoke and Ilrhenir held very still beneath the healers touch. When he spoke at last, gone was the healers normally soft tenor. It was replaced with a breathy monotone, almost making Haimen's voice sound oddly flat as he spoke. "I see blended, the aspect of tree and of horse, one giving of its shelter and strength, the other of its spirit and grace . I see flashes of a proud man who stands like a solemn pillar, unnoticed by many who walk within the safety of the edifice but integral in its support all the same. I see many things for you, 

Ilrhenir. Many of which are whorls of color I have not the time to interpret. But your future is not to fall on this field." Haimen inhaled a shuddering breath and smiled suddenly, opening his eyes and taking away his hand. P

"I do not understand." Ilrhenir said. Haimen's words were so cryptic and brief that Ilrhenir hardly knew what to think. P

"Nor do I." said Haimen, he smiled wryly and shrugged. "Even when clarity is the destination, the road of insight does not always lead to it." He laughed good-naturedly, suddenly seeming his former, easy self. "And have no doubt, even when it does, clarity can be quite confusing at times, Ilrhenir." P

Ilrhenir thought on all that Haimen had said. "Well that was useless!" He announced hotly. P

And then he blushed as Haimen chuckled. "What will I do then, Haimen? What am I to do with this this Ithing/I I have?" He sighed and pushed up on his elbow ignoring the harsh stitch of pain in his ribs. "What am I to do at all? " The last question broached more than the subject at hand to encompass far more than what Ilrhenir thought Haimen would or could answer. But he meant it all the same. What would he do, today, tomorrow, once he found Strider? It all seemed far too confusing and grim to contemplate. Perhaps that is why he wanted to throw himself into what he Idid/I know was yet to come. A desire to escape from the worries of an unsure tomorrow. To find release from care in the timeless fervor he had found battle to be. To not leave behind what bonds he had forged in his brief time for the lonely road to Gondor? P

Haimen smiled again easily and leaned forward, tilting his head thoughtfully. "I will not gainsay you again if you can tell me honestly, what does your heart say?" P

Ilrhenir thought on this for a long, long moment before answering. He tried to hear some inner indication less fallible that his own conscious mind. He looked inward and tried to go deeper, past the whirling thoughts and images, past confusing need to stay with the Eorlings. And in the center of it all, in the still where heart and thought met was a tall broad man that seemed more friend than anyone he had known his whole childhood. Baelorn. And suddenly Ilrhenir seemed more comfortable. "I must stay." he said calmly. It was all Ilrhenir said, and he meant it. P

Haimen sighed, realizing he was back where he started. "Is that the darkness within you speaking out of despair or does your heart carry a kernel of hope born of what you know?" P

Again Ilrhenir considered quietly for several moments. "Neither, I think, Haimen. I simply cannot see tomorrow in my mind?" P

It was not all that Ilrhenir meant to say, nor nearly what Haimen had expected to hear. P

"What I mean is that I cannot seem to make an image of tomorrow in my mind, or perhaps it is my heart that is so willingly blind." Ilrhenir blushed at the reference to blindness, hoping he had not offended Haimen. But Haimen seemed not to notice, so he continued. "I cannot seem to summon an image of tomorrow in my mind knowing that I did not stay and fight by Baelorn and so he was lost whilst I ran to safety. As you say, so many will fall in this battle and if that was truly a vision that I had today, well, then I am a coward, for I lack the courage to inspect it close for fear of seeing Baelorn amongst the fallen. But, if I refuse to see him dead on the morrow, in foresight or even in my imagination, and I strive to fight at his side, then perhaps tomorrow will come in a way that my heart can bear to look upon, and I will be able to think on my days yet to come after the battle is over. And you said you saw me have a longer life than bespeaks me dying here. Is that because I went to safety, or is it in spite of having stayed in danger? " Ilrhenir looked up suddenly, a little shocked to have finally put words to the odd ideas. P

Haimen actually chuckled. "You are a strange one to be sure, Ilrhenir, but I think I understand your strangeness, for it is my own. What matters now is that you believe you must be here. And I think Ithat/I is your truth, my friend. And though my mind insists upon taking you away to safety with the other wounded in our care, I will allow you your will." p

"It is a relief to hear you say so, Haimen. Though I must admit, as much as I wish to stay, as much as I feel I must, I am afraid. I think that I am a coward after all." Ilrhenir blushed. P

"To be sure Ilrhenir, a coward you are not. Fear does not make one cowardly. Fear is a forge that tempers a man's nature. Greater courage has the man who fears greatly and yet conquers it than the fool who fears nothing. P

Ilrhenir paused and was surprised to find that Haimen's assessment of courage made no small amount of sense. And he smiled. "What you are telling me is not to fear being afraid?" He smiled mischievously. P

"Perhaps I think more to the point, a healthy fear is indicative of a preserving amount of common sense, not cowardice." Haimen chuckled. P

Haimen Helped Ilrhenir sit up and get clothed and soon the young healer was calling to his masters that the tent was nearly evacuated. P

"Haimen….. will I see you again soon?" Ilrhenir asked soberly, watching the last of the men who had lain within be carried out of the tent. P

"Mayhap you will. You Ilrhenir, will go to the Eorlingas to fight in this battle. And with you goes what prayers I have. I will trust my own I_sight/I_ and hold to my hope that against all odds, I will see you again, alive." Haimen paused, sobering a bit. "We will meet again Ilrhenir, if only for a short while." Haimen then turned to go pack a bag of travel foods and simples for Ilrhenir. P

When he returned shortly, Ilrhenir was getting on his boots. "Haimen, did you see Strider, my father? Was he…What did he…" P

"Nay Ilrhenir," Haimen interrupted. " I did not see this Strider…not exactly. As I said, the vision was brief and I saw many things swiftly flow by, some of which it is best not to speak of for fear of setting things awry. I saw shadows come and go for you Ilrhenir, as with any life. For rare is he that knows of the day and not the night. But I did get a sense that you at least met him." P

An odd smile briefly lit Ilrhenir's features as he sat there upon the cot. Haimen turned a small pack over to him and went about more last minute duties. Ilrhenir stayed there a moment longer, pondering the strange sense of freedom suddenly blooming within him. P 

Ilrhenir had not the time to ponder very long for suddenly the sounds of battle reached them clearly, and the voices of the master healers beckoned those still in preparation to make haste. So Ilrhenir clasped his cloak, and then concentrated on ignoring the numerous aches as he stood. Tried to stifle his sudden realization of how weary and unprepared he was. IWhat was I thinking! It might be a short day indeed, despite Haimen's fair prediction. /I. Ilrhenir was ready to leave, and so were the healers for as he stood there marshaling his strength, the tent's wall hooks were being taken town about him in preparation of dropping the massive healer's tent. P

Haimen came to him again, moving more slowly now that there were no familiar paths of cots to guide his navigation. P

"Here Haimen, I am over here." Ilrhenir called, his voice sounding hollow in the empty tent. P

Haimen smiled and picked a faster pace as Ilrhenir's voice gave him a target. He arrived and stopped before Ilrhenir. "For your travels Ilrhenir, another pack." His smile turned slightly sad. "The quarter master would not miss one extra considering how few we are now compared to how many were when we arrived. I packed blankets and extra clothing in the first one I gave you. In Ithis/I one is food, and tin-ware, a tinderbox, a wine-skin and such simples as you will need to continue to get stronger. So should it be long ere we meet again, within there are several individual paper packets, each filled with herbs. They are to be mixed with water or wine and drank, one each morning and one each night, every day. They are the same said herbals that I have been giving you already." P

Ilrhenir made a face recalling the bitter, distasteful herbal drinks barely made imbibable by large infusions of honey into the drinks. "Err…… Thank you Haimen. I shall be sure to drink them every day." Ilrhenir said flatly. P

Haimen laughed loudly. "Oh, Ilrhenir I shall miss you! But I shall try to meet up with you again at Healm's Deep. At any rate, I suspect you will forget somehow to drink your hated herbals, but you must promise me to try." P

Ilrhenir sighed resignedly. "I promise to try Haimen, when and if I can, I will drink them." P

The two of them stood there facing each other and Ilrhenir regarded Haimen intently, making a memory of the kindly Healer just in case he _did indeed _survive the day. Ilrhenir would never want to forget Haimen's gentle kindness and wisdom, so reminiscent of Jenna's. "I will miss you as well Haimen." His voice was quiet and suddenly thick as he tried to say goodbye. P

Haimen reached suddenly out and pulled Ilrhenir into a friendly embrace, which Ilrhenir returned, ignoring his complaining injuries. It was comforting, the first of it's kind that he had known since before his mother's passing. Ilrhenir had forgotten how much he missed it. But it was also a sound and grounding goodbye. The embrace naturally fell away after a long moment and Ilrhenir cleared his throat, smiling. "Haimen, be safe…. Please." P

"Aye, I will, my friend. And you as well. Stay by Baelorn's side and make it through this day. The whole camp whispers that you have a survivor's luck and perhaps it will rub off on him." Haimen chuckled and they clasped arms in the way that Ilrhenir had seen men of comradeship do before and with that, Haimen turned and felt for Ilrhenir's cot, folding it up quickly and departing. Ilrhenir was left standing there alone, wondering if he were making the right choice. Now that he had won the right to stay by Baelorn, he wondered if it were a mistake to have done so. P

But Ilrhenir buried his misgivings and walked out of the tent with as confident a stride as he could muster as the outer tent poles were being collapsed. He headed for the line of warriors along the east bank, surprised by the changes in the garrison encampment since that morning. P

The sun told of just past midday and Ilrhenir could hear clearly the enemy making hard battle just the other side of the Ford. He looked about the camp, which was broken down neatly to make all its salvageable components mobile. The tents were down and loaded, all the supplies taken up into storage and loaded as well. Only the barest necessities were still out. There were still cooks serving meals but even they had gathered all but the most necessary wares aboard their mess wagons. P

In the distance, beyond the East bridgehead and the line of waiting cavalry, Ilrhenir could see the moody, bleak sky hovering threateningly over the black blanket of Saruman's forces over the countryside. Ilrhenir shivered involuntarily at the image as it blended and flickered between the reality of the gloomy midday and the hellish scenes from his vision. P

Ilrhenir slowly walked on, ignoring his great weariness and eventually saw Baelorn mounted on Naisi in the crowd of cavalry guarding the verge of the east bank. To Ilrhenir's eyes the Rohirric warrior himself seemed terribly weary, but still Baelorn seemed to burn with the same proud defiance of all the other riders, poised waiting with his brethren to descend across the ford upon a single command. P

Ilrhenir approached the line of cavalry and suddenly felt unsure, wondering how Baelorn would view his arrival. He could hear the sounds of war just on the west side of the fords and he could see Baelorn studying the far shore watching the progress of the battle. He froze there a moment and then called out. P

"Baelorn!" P

A chiseled, blond bearded face turned suddenly, looking for the hailing voice and Ilrhenir almost quavered as Baelorn's gaze found him and turned dangerously cold. But instead, Ilrhenir tucked his chin high and met the Rohirrim's grim countenance. Words passed quickly between Baelorn and two others in the line of cavalrymen, and it seemed that Baelorn was taken with anger, though his two comrades seemed to find something very amusing. P

A moment later Baelorn broke from his company and wheeled Naisi about, riding back to meet Ilrhenir. When he reined in his mount just before trampling the youth beneath Naisi's massive hooves, Baelorn looked down upon Ilrhenir and his eyes shown with furry. "The waines of wounded men ride out as we speak! Is there aught reason that you are wavering here before me, boy, rather than being yonder with the retreat?" Baelorn demanded. P

Ilrhenir mastered the urge to flinch at Baelorn's harshness. Instead he notched his chin even higher yet, quelled the fear within himself and met Baelorn's gaze with a surprisingly steady stare of his own. "You have my sword sir, and a man never leaves behind his blade." Ilrhenir cleared his throat and stayed posed like a bleak statue, his sable hair blowing chaotically in the unseasonably warm and foul wind coming across the Westfold from Isen. P

Baelorn again took in the sight of the hopeless but irrefutable youth standing before him. Ilrhenir looked as equally likely to either take on Saruman all by himself and maybe win by shear grit or blow over with the next well placed huff of wind, and Baelorn softened, sagging visibly in his saddle. "Aye lad, I have your blade." Baelorn grinned wryly and reached behind to his saddlebags to unfasten Ilrhenir's sword. He handed it down to Ilrhenir noticing the youth's shaking hands. "Ilrhenir, be honest with me, you are not well enough to stay." P

Despite his hands. Ilrhenir's resolve never quavered and his eyes never left Baelorn's face. "I do very well, Baelorn. Haimen himself let me stay." P

Baelorn just sighed, suspecting that Haimen had no more luck controlling the lad than he did. But Haimen's approval or not, it was obvious to Baelorn that Ilrhenir was not fit to be on the field of battle. "Ilrhenir, see yonder those men that find their meals and bedrolls ere they are needed on the field? Join them and I shall call you when the time comes." P

"But Baelorn…" P

"Nay! I will hear no argument on this. When you are needed upon the field, be assured that you will be called. Ere the night comes, no man here will not have tasted battle, but a wise soldier seeks what fortifying comforts he can, whilst he may. I have no time for arguing this as a father might to a child, Ilrhenir. So if a soldier you are, then act like one and follow orders." With that, Baelorn turned Naisi sharply and returned to the ranks of his company. P

Ilrhenir bit back his sharp reply and reigned in his hurt and slowly wandered off to one of the gathering fires in which food was being passed out to the Eorlingas not readying themselves for immediate battle. A familiar grumble in the pit of his stomach reminded Ilrhenir that his I_vision/I_ that morn had indeed caused him to miss breakfast and he flopped down gratefully on his cloak and accepted a large steaming bowl from the scruffy Rohirrim keeping a large iron stewpot. P

The cook, a man named Owain, smiled grimly and told Ilrhenir that whoever had been feeding the lad had not been doing so from Owain's firepot, avowing that Ilrhenir would I_not/I_ have been so small of bone had that been the case. Ilrhenir managed a small, shy smile, which only caused the cook to chuckle and insist the boy eat a second bowl of stew when he was done with the first. P

Ilrhenir was eyed by several of the men who, to his surprise, all seemed amiable. And to his greater surprise yet, they all seemed at least acquainted with who he was. He had expected distrust and suspicion from the Eord, considering the law of their King, which Baelorn had explained. But for some reason, these soldiers were not so. In fact, after a while Ilrhenir realized that if at first he had felt ill at ease with them, it was because he was himself reclusive by nature. And ere long, Ilrhenir was pulled somewhat out of his insular tendencies by the comfort of the quiet gathering round the cookfire. P

He noticed that the men by the fire all seemed to share the same quiet sense of weight that he did. None of them spoke loudly or seemed overly prone to force conversation, but there was an oddly tranquil companionship that comforted him. Amongst these men there was no need to speak if it suited them not to. Each man there had his own hopes and fears for the day's outcome and each took comfort in the presence of his fellows with quiet dignity. P

Ilrhenir had pause to ponder again how much he seemed in tune with this solemn way, if this was indeed the way of soldiers. Or perhaps this was the way of men who were all about to die and he had spent so much time in a state of peril since leaving his home in Bree that he had grown accustomed to and comfortable with the quiet expectation of death. Either way, surrounded by the solace of men of like mood and lying with a full stomach upon the ground, warmed by the nearness of a large cooking fire, Ilrhenir fell into a very deep sleep, unaware when Owain laid a blanket over the youth. P

And through the day and the many battles Ilrhenir continued to sleep until late afternoon. P B


	6. Chapter 6

Warnings include way too much angst, and plenty of violence. 

Chapter six: The Second Battle of the Fords of Isen 

When Ilrhenir woke, it was to Owain shaking him vigorously. And he bit back a cry as the determined cook roughly jostled Ilrhenir's mending ribs. He shouted something that Ilrhenir caught less than half of, but amid the hastily delivered Rohirric exclamations, most of which he was sure were curses were a few words Ilrhenir knew with dread. _Wake up… upon us…_Ilrhenir looked about him, confused. But when Owain seemed about to give his shoulder another sound shaking he flinched and squeaked, "I'm up, Owain! Please! ". He lowered his voice, raising his hands defensively, "I **am** awake, shake me not.". 

The stout cook snorted and withdrew and resumed yelling to the other mess cooks. The wagons of supplies were being drawn into what looked like a rough circle. Indeed, all things were packed away for retreat and when Owain returned to Ilrhenir's side with food, it was a dried sausage and yellow cheese wrapped in oiled paper that he pressed into the lad's hands, not a bowl of hot pottage. And then swiftly, Owain retreated again. 

It was dim about him, the light seeming to have been sucked out of the sky, and then much to his chagrin Ilrhenir realized that it was the approaching twilight that dampened the brightness of the open expanse above. His face bloomed with the heat of shame at having been let sleep all day while the others fought the enemy, though he could not deny the need. So Ilrhenir tucked the sausage and cheese down his tunic, picked up his blade and scrambled to his feet, looking around. 

All seemed strange, as though the garrison was trapped in an almost orchestrated dance. Many people were weaving rapidly about each other, performing tasks at a hectic pace, each bent to their own duties. Ilrhenir looked on the scene and came to the conclusion that the mesmerizing waltz of soldiers was the result of each person having their own vital task to set their feet to and suddenly Ilrhenir desperately needed to find _his _purpose in it all. He had to find Baelorn ere the battle came to this bank. 

Amid the syncopated scurry, Ilrhenir sought out the familiar sight of the east bank bridgehead and fortification. He was startled to see the bridgehead devoid of the companies of Rohirrim that had stood there earlier, guarding it. In the distance Ilrhenir could hear the cries of the fallen and the clashing of countless weapons. And on the crisp wind blowing off the battlefield he could smell the death that had been wrought. 

The battle was being fought fiercely on the west bank and upon the Ford itself, not yet upon this side of the river. Plunging into the intricate pattern of Rohirric men about him, all engaged in their duties to mold the garrison into the vaguely circular configuration it was beginning to resemble, Ilrhenir wound his way quickly through them to the eastern bank of the Ford. 

There, standing on high above the Fords of Isen, Ilrhenir looked down on the spectacle of destruction that was spread out below him like a great wound upon the earth. The ground was littered with the fallen, like broken refuse strewn carelessly about as far as he could see in the twilight. And Ilrhenir steeled himself and squinted in the failing light of the encroaching dusk, trying to spy a familiar face among the dead. He looked hard, perhaps too closely praying that he never saw the one that he searched for. But the expanse was great and the fallen so numerous that even in light of full day he never would have been able to see to find a single familiar fallen man amongst the masses. 

But what he saw instead was more chilling than even the prospect of recognizing a face amongst the trampled bodies. The Rohirrim were decimated. They fought bravely, cleaving a score of enemy for every one Eorling that was sent to meet his kindred in the afterlife, but Saruman had no dearth of forces to spend upon the tips of Rohirric blades and Ilrhenir's heart twisted with dread as he saw the few that remained of Grimbold's companies. 

Then, just as he feared they would be over run at last, Ilrhenir heard Grimbold call a retreat from the fords. He ached for all the men still fighting in the swamped earthen forts on the far west bank, for no man amongst them could heed the retreat and Ilrhenir knew they would battle on, without hope or reprieve, knowing themselves that they would each eventually fall with only the deaths of their enemies about them to give their endings significance. Ilrhenir riveted his eyes on the retreating Eord and denied himself the urge to bow his head for the men trapped on the west bank who were already as good as dead, though they battle on still. He think on them later. He was watching for one particular horseman and could not afford to look away. 

The pounding of horse hooves sounded closely as Grimbold's remaining forces surged forth, mounting the east bank, turning to make their last stand there in the twilight. Ilrhenir retreated from the lip of the bridgehead just as the first riders cleared it, and watched transfixed hoping for sight of Baelorn. The tattered companies mounted the embankment and Ilrhenir's relief was almost a physical pain as he watched Naisi finally scramble up the bank with Baelorn riding upon his back, head held high, his armor and great sword steeped in battle gore. 

As the waves of Rohirrim passed the east bridgehead they skillfully parted for those that followed and before long, all who were going to make it off the west bank and Ford alive, had done so. A pitiably small number. 

Dusk was now fully upon them and in the dimness of the new evening Ilrhenir once again approached the lip of the eastern rise over the Isen. There, paused like a great mocking cobra ready to strike, relishing the anticipation of death that flowed off its pray, were the forces of Saruman poised and waiting. But the enemy did not attempt to cross the Fords and fight their way up the steep slopes to dislodge the Rohirrim, not yet. 

Ilrhenir watched the forces of orcs and Dunlanders rally below the eastern bank and knew that unless relief came from Edoras and Helm's Deep, the failing garrison of Grimbold's forces were doomed. Elfhelm's companies were not present, Ilrhenir seemed to vaguely remember Baelorn explaining where the Field Marshal of the King's Eord had chosen to place his men, though Ilrhenir at this moment hoped that Elfhelm would change his mind and come barreling south to bring relief once again, as he had done one week ago this very night. 

As he watched the snarling enemy below, a humming anticipation of the battle yet to come, filled Ilrhenir. And over his mind worked a grim sense of purpose that seemed to him, later, to be every bit as dark as the enemy he was about to face. No thoughts of Bree, or Jenna or Strider, or even Baelorn now occupied him, but only keen images that had lain suppressed of the battle one week gone. But the memories brought no fear or revulsion this time, only an abstract curiosity as Ilrhenir waded through the memories, picking and choosing amongst the chaotic textures and sounds for the flavors of battle, the sound of the dying, the feel of flesh and bone surrendering to steel. 

Baelorn noticed that Ilrhenir seemed enraptured, standing on the edge overlooking the Ford and he feared that the preoccupied look on the youths face was indicative of another fit. He traded a brief explanation to the warriors standing with him on horseback and then broke line, riding to Ilrhenir. "Ilrhenir." He called. The youth did not respond_. Damn it all! _Baelorn thought wearily. _He should have been made to leave with Haimen. I have no time for this! _But aloud he simply repeated his call. "Ilrhenir!" 

Ilrhenir blinked and looked up at Baelorn somewhat surprised that he had not noticed the warrior's approach. "Baelorn…" 

"Aye Ilrhenir." Baelorn sighed, relieved. "Step away from the ledge lad, lest an orc split you twain with an arrow through your breast." 

Ilrhenir did not comply, rather he looked up to Baelorn sitting high on Naisi's back and fixed the Rohirrim with that same piercing look that Baelorn was quickly beginning to associate with Ilrhenir's intense stubborn streak. "It's about to start again, is it not?" asked Ilrhenir. 

Baelorn sighed; half wishing that the battle _would_ resume again ere the heat of it abandoned his veins leaving him exhausted in the aftermath of two sleepless days. "I know not, Ilrhenir. I had thought they would press our retreat over the east bank but they have stayed their hand when it would have been wise to strike. But their folly shall be our grace." He looked out over the expanse of the Isen at the eerie sight of orcish and Dunland armies nestled on the eyot and beyond, polluting the Westfold with their inky encampments. "I could wish we had more archers, though. A single company of longbow yeomen on this ledge would have made them rue the day they were hatched!" 

"What shall we do?" Ilrhenir asked, shivering and pulling his cloak about himself tighter as a fowl gust of wind blew off the western battlefield buffeting them up upon the bank. It was not cold; rather it was getting warmer yet, muggy. The evening air was heavy, despite the strong wind that blew and it was laden with a brooding darkness that had nothing to do with nightfall. 

"We stand." Baelorn answered. "We fight. And if our luck holds, we shall live to see Eomer and Erkenbrand save the day." Baelorn pointed toward back on the garrison beyond the bridgehead drawing Ilrhenir's gaze. "Look yonder, Ceorl, Dwydeon and the others all grouped there 'round Grimbold. Shortly they will dispatch to hasten the forces from Edoras with word of our plight, even as I had hoped to do when I happened upon Elfhelm. All is not yet lost. Erkenbrand must be on his way as well. It has been days since he relieved word from us. Surely by now he has a muster." Baelorn would not see Ilrhenir burdened with his own sense of doom. Weariness and a seasoned soldier's calculation of odds had drained him of the hope he carried for the day, but he would not weight Ilrhenir with his dire mood. 

"Baelorn…" Ilrhenir looked up at his friend who seemed to sag in the saddle the longer he sat there atop his mount. In his face Baelorn read a need. He was beginning to realize that Ilrhenir's stubborn moments had a way to them, like strange little puzzle, only he was too exhausted to work through this one. 

"Aye?" Baelorn asked wearily, rubbing his eyes. 

"What of the others? The Eorlingas trapped within the besieged forts, yonder?" Ilrhenir pointed into the distance and though it was too dark for Baelorn to see, he knew where of Ilrhenir was asking. 

__

Ah, Baelorn thought. _Now we come to the heart of it._

Long familiar with loosing comrade and kindred alike to battle, Baelorn looked fondly but sad, down upon the sable youth and told Ilrhenir what he had to, what he knew Ilrhenir had already reckoned himself. "They have come upon the fate befallen too many of our breed since Saruman's betrayal." Baelorn reached down and squeezed Ilrhenir's shoulder gently. "In the coming days we will sing for them lad, be assured, but all you need concern yourself with for now is not becoming further fodder for our keening. Come away from the ledge." 

Ilrhenir nodded finally, his shoulders slumped with sorrow and he followed after Naisi as Baelorn headed back to his company. Just then, Baelorn's captain came forth and Ilrhenir watched the two men negotiate until it was clear that Baelorn was being sent away from the line to rest. 

Ilrhenir was actually relieved. What strength he had upon waking was gone and since Baelorn was going too much needed rest, he would follow. 

"Come Ilrhenir, we are sent to find our bedrolls whilst we may. And much as I am loath to admit it, I shall be asleep ere I tether poor Naisi, who must stay girded and bridled while his master sleeps." 

"If you want, I will take care of him as you find your bed." Ilrhenir reached for the horse's reins. 

"Know you how?" Baelorn asked, surprised. 

"In Bree I helped the hostlers for a few pennies here and there." Ilrhenir stood straight and eyed Baelorn indignantly. 

Baelorn laughed and snorted derisively. "No Breeland hostler would know what to do with a Rohirric steed!" 

Ilrhenir's cheeks colored a bit and he frowned reaching his hand out. "Baelorn, give me his reins. And go find your rest ere _you_ end up the one in a faint upon the ground." Ilrhenir plied the reins from Baelorn's loose grasp and gave the older man a critical stare, frowning in mock admonition. "I tell you now, if you fall ere you find your pallet, I shall be forced to leave you. Sooner could I carry Naisi, than you." And Ilrhenir snorted.

"What cheek!" Baelorn laughed. But in the end he submitted. "So be it, but give him an apple from the stock barrels, will you? My lad Naisi is as weary as I and much deserving of an indulgence. I shall be yonder, by the armor waines" And with that, Baelorn untied his bedroll from Naisi's saddlebags and headed off to lie down. 

What Ilrhenir didn't know was that Baelorn mistrusted Ilrhenir's so-called _Breeland _hostler's education. In Baelorn's way of thinking, the northerners probably didn't know a horse from a barley hoppe. And so he set out his pallet by the armor wagons and chuckled, for from that spot, Baelorn could well see the entirety of what remained of the tethered line of mounts. He settled back and watched Ilrhenir struggle through caring for Naisi. 

When Ilrhenir finally gathered his own meager belongings and staggered his way over and plopped down on the ground, wrapping his cloak about him, Baelorn made room on his narrow bedroll for the lad, wishing he had taken time to ask the quartermaster to provision Ilrhenir with a bedroll of his own. 

Ilrhenir, grateful to have something between himself and the cold earth besides his cloak, lay there for a short while rolling this way and that, trying to get comfortable and finally he pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down on Baelorn, wondering if the Rohirrim was asleep. "Baelorn" 

After a moment, Baelorn answered. "Aye lad?" He cocked one lid open. 

"Would you really sing a keen for me if I were dead?" Ilrhenir, as tired as he was, seemed unable to sleep. The last person he had slept this close to had been his diminutive mother and the feel of Baelorn's large hard form next to him was disconcertingly different.

Baelorn sighed. "Aye. Most definitely." 

When Ilrhenir said nothing more, Baelorn resumed trying to sleep, though he noted that Ilrhenir did not lie back down again. 

"Baelorn?" Ilrhenir said again, after several moments. 

"Yes lad?" Baelorn tried to keep the irritation from his voice as he answered as patiently as he was able. 

"You haven't eaten. I have this with me. Here." Ilrhenir sat up all the way and carefully fished the summer sausage and cheese out of his tunic. He had also taken the time to nab Baelorn's wineskin off the saddlebags. 

"I can't take this Ilrhenir." Baelorn looked on Ilrhenir, who was looking back at him imploringly, offering the wrapped food in bandaged fingers, and suddenly Baelorn's irritation melted away. 

"Yes you can, I've already eaten tonight. I wrestled that from Owain for you." Ilrhenir lied. He didn't want to lie, but he also knew that Baelorn had been on the battlefield all day with no meal. On the other hand, Ilrhenir had eaten well, earlier that day in fact, and in his mind, he had taken plenty while Baelorn had gone without. 

"Thank you, lad." Baelorn accepted the food, took one look at Ilrhenir and knew well that the youth was lying. Looking on the boy he made note never to let the other soldiers involve Ilrhenir in any games of chance, for the youth was far too easy to read. Baelorn suspected this was the Ilrhiner's own dinner and considering how scarce food had been in Ilrhenir's recent past, he noted the gift with due gravity and humility and then split the meat and cheese in half. 

Lying there together on the ground, they shared a quiet meal. 

Just as Baelorn's eyes fluttered shut and he surrendered to his weariness, Ilrhenir's voice sounded again. "Baelorn?" 

"_Yes lad!_" Baelorn answered him a bit more harshly, exhaustion finally eroding his patience. 

Ilrhenir jumped Baelorn's loudness. "Do you think we will be killed in this battle?" he asked quietly. 

Baelorn's voice still carried a dangerous edge to it. "No Ilrhenir, I do not." 

"Why?" Ilrhenir pushed back up on his elbow and stared at the Rohirrim trying to sleep. 

Baelorn growled. "_Because the enemy will come tonight and find naught left of you but a few buzzard picked remnants if you do not silence yourself and go to sleep!!!"_

Ilrhenir was undaunted. He laid back down and smiled innocently, hiding his mischief. Ilrhenir waited several minutes, then rolled over and said, "Baelorn?" 

**__**

"WHAT!" Baelorn shouted, finally having lost what patience he possessed.. Several nearby sleeping soldiers grumbled at the ruckus. 

"Oh, nothing…." Ilrhenir suddenly ducked under his cloak hiding a grin. He decided that the game was over. 

"What!" Baelorn repeated a little less hostile. 

"Truly, nothing Baelorn." Ilrhenir called over his shoulder. "Get some sleep Baelorn" He heard the large warrior grunt and huff and flop into the bedroll with his back to Ilrhenir but he stayed tense. The youth lay quiet for a few moments; seeming asleep and eventually Baelorn grumbled something in Rohirric, settling himself again into repose. 

"Baelorn…" 

"**_Ilrhenir, I swear by the blood of Eorl!_**" Baelorn shot up on his own elbow, glaring down at the boy, who, to his surprise, had a very innocent, beatific smile upon his face. 

"Peace Baelorn, I was just going to ask that you not keep me up snoring." Ilrhenir stated quietly with a sweet smile. 

"What!" Baelorn gaped. 

"You snore." Ilrhenir said matter-of-factly in a quiet tone. 

"I most certainly do not! Twas _you _who nearly collapsed the healers tent with your incessant sawing!" Baelorn laid back again; sure he had effectively settled matters. "Now give me peace!"

Again there was a lengthy silence but Baelorn was beyond trusting it. And then… "I do not snore, Baelorn. Besides, how would you know?" Ilrhenir quipped. 

Baelorn uttered a growl of such frustration that Ilrhenir found it difficult to hide his amusement. 

"The many hours I spent at your sickbed sufficed as evidence enough!" Baelorn countered. 

"Oh. Well. In that event, I promise not to snore…. If you don't snore." And with that, Ilrhenir amiably rolled his back to Baelorn again and was silent. 

"Go to sleep Ilrhenir!" Baelorn hissed, close to violence. 

"Aye Baelorn." Ilrhenir muttered through a yawn as he started to drift off. 

A minute passed and then Baelorn turned to face Ilrhenir's back.

"Ilrhenir…" Baelorn called, he would get just a little of his own back. 

"What!" Ilrhenir groused in a sleepy voice. 

"Goodnight, lad." Baelorn chuckled to himself. The only answer he got was the gentle sound of Ilrhenir snoring after a few moments pause. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the second time, Ilrhenir woke to being shaken. "Stop! Please, I am awake!" He gasped, and laid there a moment, his arms wrapped around his aching ribs. Ilrhenir wondered wryly if all Rohirric women roused their lads as roughly and so it had become endemic to all their kind. 

He eventually opened his eyes and sat up. It was still dark and the entire encampment was all astir. Ilrhenir could see by the moonlight that had slipped from behind the storm clouds that it was no later than midnight. Baelorn looked down on him worriedly, but there was also an urgency in the crouched man's tired features. 

"I am sorry to have jostled you so, Ilrhenir, I did forget your injuries. But you were hard to rouse and we have need of haste." He watched the lad slowly pull himself to his feet, and Baelorn offered and arm, but was kindly refused. Ilrhenir preferred to do it by his own power.

"Tis alright, Baelorn." Ilrhenir smiled, arranging his cloths with a twinkle of weary mischief in his eyes. "I am coming to suspect that it is a Rohirrim trait, these furious wakings. 

Baelorn chuckled grimly, but quickly sobered. "As I said, we have need of haste.

It has begun in earnest, Ilrhenir." He did not tell the lad of the massive host that had wound south from Isengard on the west side of the Isen. There was no point in alarming him. 

But Ilrhenir seemed to have some sense of what lay unsaid, and he looked intently at Baelorn. "You will be in the lines of cavalry now?" 

"Yes, and I would that you stayed alert and away from battle for as long as you may. Erkenbrand and Eomer may yet come to our aid." Baelorn knew the forces that could be mustered from Helm's Deep and he suspected the numbers of those that were available from the Eastfold. Neither force, nor even them both combined could save them against what Baelorn had just spied upon the field. 

"Baelorn." Ilrhenir took hold of the soldier's arm and a pair of determined gray eyes met Baelorn's. "Forget not your oath to me." 

"Ilrhenir?" 

"I will not be taken again. If we cannot win the day then it ends here, it ends now." Ilrhenir shook his head slowly and whispered. "I will not be taken again." 

Baelorn was horrified by the implication, but the issue became moot when a mounted Rohirrim rode up swiftly, drawing his mount in short. "Baelorn, you are needed! They press the Ford now!" And the rider sped off back towards the bridgehead. 

Baelorn clasped Ilrhenir about the neck knitting his fingers in the long black hair at the base of Ilrhenir's head. "Stay back, run if you must, but get away. And if the spirit of Eorl permits, I will live to see you again. If not, go south to Minas Tirith and find your father. No man should meet his end ere knowing that he has a son such as thee." And with that, Baelorn grabbed the newly vacated bedroll, turned and trotted off towards the thin line of horses to fetch Naisi.

Ilrhenir watched him swiftly mount and join his fellows. He looked into the night sky and surmised that it was only now reaching midnight. Ilrhenir squinted south and east into the dark distance and let loose a low prayer that their relief come fleetly and then he took up his sword and headed after his friend, ignoring the order to stay back out of the way. 

Ilrhenir's bruised hips ached terribly before he reached Grimbold's mustered forces along the eastern bank of the Fords and his breath came in painful gasps. As he knelt along the lip to get his wind, Ilrhenir looked out at what they would be facing and suddenly he was awash with dread. For before him, stretched out seemingly forever, was the fell host that had come to him in vision earlier that very day. As Ilrhenir watched, in the distance, points of red light were seen coming from the north, already drawing very near. It was the vanguard of the whole remaining forces of Saruman that were now being committed to battle for the final conquest of the Westfold. The hundreds of points of red light erupted suddenly, as torches were lit and passed and to Ilrhenir it seemed as though a great wash of fire overtook the enemy and they became a living, burning blanket of hatred upon the land. The fire passed like a flowing river to spread to the dark forces that occupied the Fords themselves and suddenly, the multitudinous enemy swept up over the Fords, surging up the eastern bank and engaging the forces at the bridgehead. 

Had Ilrhenir stayed in the camp as Baelorn had bid him, he would likely not have seen any of this first surge of Isengarders, but as he was along the lip of the river itself, he was quickly swept away in a great clamorous torrent of fire and hate. 

Fortunately for Ilrhenir, it was not long ere Grimbold called a retreat off the east bank and it was with a loud curse that Baelorn found him trapped amidst the battle. Baelorn rode his mount leaping into the melee, Naisi kicking and screaming at their unnatural foes, Baelorn hacking and slashing at the same. He retrieved Ilrhenir by the colar, hoisting the overwhelmed youth up out of the fray. "Damn it all, Ilrhenir! Do you listen to no ones council!" 

Baelorn wheeled Naisi about and breaking free of the mob of orcs, urged his mount to catch up to the ranks of withdrawing cavalry. When he reached the garrison's circle, along with all the others, Baelorn shed his mount leaving Ilrhenir still in the saddle. He briefly studied the youth who had been ominously silent since being hefted up from the battle scene. Cold fear gripped Baelorn as he wondered if Ilrhenir had received some new grievous injury. "Ilrhenir!"

It was a moment before Ilrhenir answered, bent over the saddle horn, but he eventually did, his features etched in pain. "Here." He croaked. 

"Indeed, but are you whole?" Baelorn swiftly tore off his glove and ran a hand along the length of Ilrhenir's back, feeling for blood. "I haven't time to tend you, I must join the shieldwall, but tell me now." 

"I am whole, Baelorn." Ilrhenir's voice was still pinched with pain, his eyes squeezed shut. And Baelorn eyed him suspiciously. "Shieldwall?" Ilrhenir asked. 

"Aye, our last resort. Being too short of stature, even Uruks cannot meet a shieldwall well, so they will have to retreat and let the mounted Dunlanders through. That will buy us precious moments. Keep Naisi safe, we will need him again ere this is over." And Baelorn turned to rush toward the wall of men constructing themselves about the encampment. 

When Baelorn was gone, Ilrhenir slowly slid off of Naisi, lacking the skill to steer the great horse from the saddle, though he would have preferred to ride than walk in his current state. Everything ached and once again his head pounded with a sickly rhythm. He had been at little risk of dying on the tip of an orc blade, for they seemed satisfied to trample and burn him in the nightmarish wave. He felt the fool for going down so swiftly. His sword had been of no avail in the press of dark forces, but at least he had been able to keep hold of it. 

Shaking as he went, Ilrhenir carefully led Naisi over to where the other horses were tethered, having been shed of their riders too. He handed off Baelorn's mount to one of the _Eord's_ own hostlers. And without a word, Ilrhenir went a few feet to the grain wagon and slid bonelessly to the ground, leaning against one of its great, iron-banded wheels. He lacked the desire or strength to fight against the darkness that hovered at the edge of his tenuous consciousness and so Ilrhenir did the only thing he could, he surrendered to it. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Baelorn joined his brethren encapsulating Ilrhenir and the rest of the garrison camp in a circular wall of infantry standing shield-to-shield, shoulder-to-shoulder. And true to Baelorn's assurances, the Uruks had no luck breaking through it. Tired, overwhelmed and outnumbered the Rohirrim were still a mighty force to be reckoned with. 

But soon the wall was surrounded completely on all sides by a massive sea of vicious orcs and the attackers rained a shower of torches at the shieldwall, some of them high over the heads of the Rohirrim into the camp in order to panic what horses were left and kindle fire to the stores. But the shieldwall held, impenetrable. 

Seeing that their limited height impaired them, the Uruk-hai commanders eventually called a retreat and they parted in a great wave to allow several companies of fierce mounted Dunlandish hillmen to take up the assault against the shieldwall. They attacked with great vehemence. But for all their strength of numbers, the Dunlanders hatred of the children of Eorl was born of a deep fear. And face to face, the Dunlanders were not nearly provisioned enough in arms nor fit in training to stand against the well armed and armored, well organized Rohirrim forming the fortification. Still the shieldwall held. 

They battled on and on, and eventually, when no help came from the south, from Edoras or Helm's Deep, nor from the north from the forces of Elfhelm, Grimbold reasoned it was time to put into action the plan that he had come upon should they find themselves in just such a grim predicament. He had made provision for just such an instance and he accepted that the time was come indeed, the Fords of Isen were fallen. 

His plans included the hopeful escape of at least a few of his men, to make it south to join forces with Erkenbrand where their blood would not be spilled in a vain battle but where they might yet serve to win against Saruman's fell forces. So the word was given to be ready when opportunity arose, to implement the plan. 

The moon had been dipping in and out of menacing clouds brought in on the foul wind from Isengard. And suddenly the multitudinous torches that had blanketed the enemy in a crimson glow flickered and were extinguished. The air hung heavy with the smoky evidence of a thousand simultaneously doused torches, but that same said storm wind cleared away the polluted air swiftly. And as the fiery lights left their foes, so too the assault ebbed and the enemy withdrew to a short distance, regrouping for a new strategy to breach the hereto impenetrable shieldwall. 

It was then that the call went out. It was time. While the enemy gathered its will for another fell assault, all who still had mounts, less than half an _eored_, were to withdraw from the wall and ready themselves. They were to be placed under the command of Captain Dunhere, Lord of Harrowdale, and a puissant and courageous leader. 

Baelorn headed for the horse line, his heart heavy. He knew the role those that were mounted were meant to play. Under Dunhere, the cavalry would distract the forces of Saruman, along with a small, handpicked stand of infantry that would fight alongside Grimbold, all the while, the main body of their garrison would break from the shieldwall and escape. 

Baelorn was childless and his wife had passed a few years earlier, so it was not thoughts of home and hearth that filled his mind and heart with remorseful ache, but rather, one lone, black haired youth who would not have the strength to escape on foot to Erkenbrand. He could still not fathom while the youth had stayed. He was not sure Ilrhenir himself knew. 

Despite his previous oath to Ilrhenir, Baelorn would not be able to ride out with the youth, taking him beyond the danger of their enemies. He wondered instantly about the rest of the oath, quickly chastising himself for such dark thoughts, looking amongst the horses for Ilrhenir and Naisi. He would have final words with the boy, regardless of how the night turned out for Ilrhenir, for Baelorn was certain it was to be their last meeting. Doubtless, Baelorn would fall in defense of the garrison's retreat, never to see Ilrhenir again. He had one chance left to convince ilrhenir to escape with the rest of the garrison when Grimbold's plan unfolded itself. And he meant for Ilrhenir to go with them, if he had to tie the youth to a wagon himself. 

Baelorn found his mount in the care of one of the Eord's own hostlers and responded to Naisi's tired nicker of recognition with a friendly scratch along the beast's neck. "One last time old friend. Just you and I together." He whispered. 

When Baelorn inquired after Ilrhenir, the man holding Naisi's tether pointed out a dark, slumped form, leaned against a rear wheel of the grain cart, unmoving. 

Baelorn's heart leapt painfully. Perhaps the lad had dismissed some grave wound and had passed away, alone, here in the camp. For a moment Baelorn pondered the kindness of that fate. He knelt before Ilrhenir and gave the youth's shoulder a gentle shake, mindful of the his soreness this time in case he only slept. It was then, by light of the once again peeking moon that Baelorn noticed for the first time the torn filthy state of Ilrhenir's uniform. The smell of scorched wool and hair assaulted his nose, though Ilrhenir seemed free of serious burns or blood save for numerous seeping scratches and scuffs. Ilrhenir was alive, testified to by the gentle rise and fall of his chest. 

Baelorn paused for a moment when the youth didn't wake. Twas time to be honest. Perhaps it would be kinder to slay the boy now than to put him upon a cart and hope the swift enemy didn't overtake them and capture Ilrhenir again. It would probably take restraining Ilrhenir to make him leave with the rest of the company, of that Baelorn was sure. And he could not do that and risk the retreating garrison being overtaken and Ilrhenir left helpless. So all that was left was to either hope the youth survived the battle or honor his pack to Ilrhenir. 

Baelorn looked with bittersweet fondness down upon the youth and silently drew his blade. Baelorn knew that Ilrhenir was more than passing fair and his capture would mean a violent end of the ugliest kind amongst Uruks and others that would vent their battle lust on the beautiful youth. Yes, this _would _be kinder. Surely he could deliver a blow placed just so and then hold the boy briefly till death came. Baelorn made ready to fulfill his oath to Ilrhenir, stealing himself, knowing that it was cruel and cowardly to leave the weak and wounded to be captured and tormented by the enemy. Every warrior knew that. And the boy had somehow become his responsibility, from the moment he hoisted a fainted Ilrhenir up off the field of battle, from the moment he urged the healers to force life back on the battered youth. But he also knew that the only reason he could contemplate the act was not because he was foresworn, but because Baelorn was sure to fall against the insurmountable odds. He had no hope for the night, only the grim determination to take as many of Saruman's abominations with him as he was able. If there were any hope that he might survive to be burdened with the guilt of this, then he would not be able to do it. 

Baelorn was unaware that in the moments whilst he ruminated, Ilrhenir had awoken, and had heard the silvery hiss of Baelorn's blade being drawn. The single, clean noise cemented the hopelessness of the day and Ilrhenir awaited the blow unflinching, not wishing Baelorn to realize that he had taken the blow knowingly. It was obvious to Ilrhenir that Baelorn needed to think that Ilrhenir was sleeping. And Ilrhenir wanted mercy for Baelorn's heart, so he lay as unmoving as though he still slept. 

But the blow did not come. Twice Baelorn laid the blade to Ilrhenir's body, once with the point at the side of Ilrhenir's throat, and once to the center of his breast. But Baelorn could not put strength to it. He finally sheathed his blade and sighed, whispering. "Forgive me Ilrhenir, I cannot fulfill my oath." He gently brushed a dark lock off Ilrhenir's brow. "I must have faith and set you upon the road. For though the enemy may take you, I cannot." 

It was then that Ilrhenir opened his eyes, though his head was yet lulled forward, resting on his breast, so Baelorn did not see the grey eyes brim with tears. But he did hear Ilrhenir's whispering voice, heavy with emotion. "I forgive you Baelorn."

Baelorn gasped and frowned, and then Ilrhenir's head lifted slowly. "But I will not go."

"Why?" Baelorn asked, his mind darting like lightening over the last few moments, wondering how long Ilrhenir had lain awake. 

"Because, Baelorn. I must… I mean… I have not the heart to move on and search for a father that I do not know when I have left behind the one I would want as a father to die."

And with that quiet answer, Ilrhenir wiped away his tears on the back of his dirty cuff, succeeding in only smearing his face more, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. 

Baelorn smiled widely despite their peril and his heart was too full to comment so he slipped an arm underneath Ilrhenir's elbow and steadied him. It was then that he noticed for the first time the large, bloody knot on the back of Ilrhenir's skull, evidence that he hadn't made it back exactly whole from the first surge of the bridgehead. Baelorn let the injury go untended. He suspected that Ilrhenir didn't have long to bear the pain of it anyway. He tried one last time to convince the youth to see reason. "But Ilrhenir, I could…" 

"Put me on a cart?" Ilrhenir shook his head smiling thinly. "You know that isn't for me, not for either of us." 

A tense moment stood between them under the night sky and then suddenly Ilrhenir captured Baelorn in a fierce embrace, which the soldier easily returned. 

"Goodbye, Ilrhenir. The God's keep you." Baelorn whispered, releasing Ilrhenir. And then came the call of the hostler to let him know that he was missed by the other cavalrymen. Baelorn turned swiftly from the youth and took up Naisi again, climbing into the saddle, his weariness evaporated in the heat of impending battle. Riding to meet the other horsemen already gathered within the eastern edge of the shield wall, Baelorn did not turn to look back. 

Ilrhenir watched him go and worry twisted his heart. Once again Ilrhenir took up his sword, and as always, he followed slowly after Baelorn. 

He had just managed to catch up to the cavalry amidst all those of the garrison preparing themselves to flee with all haste to the great road south. Hope was etched as desperate determination on the faces of all those whose lot it was _not_ to stay and hold off the flood of enemy forces. Ilrhenir stood there detachedly watching them all, like a ghost wandering their midst, as though he were already taken by the darkness and left lost. And at once, Ilrhenir realized with cold surety the sensations he had only wondered at before. Like the men he'd witnessed earlier, sealed and doomed in the west bank earthen forts, he would fight and die here tonight, with no hope and no future, with only the count of his fallen enemy about him to mark the worth of his passing. He suddenly wondered what had possessed him. Here on the ground, there was no way for him to fight at Baelorn's side! Haimen was right, his presence here would avail no one and he was a fool to have believed otherwise. But Ilrhenir was not completely without hope, for to be so, was to be beyond fear. And Ilrhenir was most definitely afraid. 

But even more than that, Ilrhenir was alone. Amidst an entire army of Rohirrim, he was as alone as ever he was traveling the desolate road south from Bree. Ilrhenir suddenly hoped for battle to begin again in earnest. The dark was oppressive and no dawn for him would come more swiftly than the point of an enemy's blade. But the idea was somehow not so frightening suddenly. I was now almost a liberating understanding. No more responsibility to go south to find Strider, no more driving need to find his mother's coins, no more hungry, or pained, or tired, or lonely, or grieving, just quiet. After the storm of battle and the whirling haze of the last few months, death would seem….restful. He would see Jenna again and somehow that warmed his heart and gave strength to his weary form.

The moon slid suddenly behind a mask of black clouds most thick, and all light was gone from the nighttime battlefield. In the darkness, the eastern shieldwall of Rohirrim suddenly parted north and south, turning on the respective enemy closest, letting pass the remnants of their cavalry who set upon the Isengarders with such vigor that for a short while, it was believed by the enemy that reinforcements had come to the surrounded Eord. In the wake of the cavalry, all those who were to do so fled toward the east and south. Those warriors of the split shieldwall that were deigned to stay and fight afoot with Grimbold engaged the orcs and Dunlanders with a fury born of accepted doom. And even once the armies of The Deceiver realized that it was only the last desperate act of their prey and that the shieldwall was at last broken, they did not set upon the retreating Rohirrim. Such was their arrogance, they sought to stamp the fleas that immediatly plagued them and then the others would be caught when the flood of Isengard's evil washed further into Rohan. 

So it was that the biggest part of those left of Grimbold's men made it upon the road to Helm's Deep. 

But though the enemy did not give chase to those that had fled, neither did the massive forces tarry with the remaining Eorlingas. Battle was swift and it flowed in a course toward the great road south sweeping the remaining Eorlingas along in a river of destruction. Deeping-Coomb was the next goal and no small dyke of Rohirrim could stem the surge of evil. 

Baelorn fought on amid the chaotic course, taking barely a scratch from any weapon. He battled madly leaving his soul to be guided by the maker of his people while his body and sword made the forces of Saruman rue their provenance. But as the battle waged, he began to be separated from his brethren by the flow of the fight, and indeed, ere long he was isolated in an ocean of enemies. It was then that he realized that they had been successful. Daring not to look more than a brief moment he spied east and south, seeing that his folk had escaped to fight along with Erkenbrand's army, and a wild, dark joy filled him. 

Baelorn thought at that moment that since Grimbold's ploy was succeeded, and against all hope he himself still lived, then he would be better served following south as he may. One more fallen Rohirrim here on _this_ field mattered not, but at Helm's Deep, partnered with many others, one sword could hold the day. So it was that Baelorn, besieged and separated from any of Grimbold and Dunhere's companies that yet lived, surged his way toward the east, trying to break out of the fight and rejoin his folk at Helm's Deep. 

Naisi was beyond exhausted, but quite as brave as his master and of the fair blood of all Rohannian steeds, he refused to fail. And soon, the sight of clear, tall grassland beyond the trampling of iron-shod desecration woke in him a second wind. So when Baelorn bid Naisi leap once more it was with a wild yearning that Naisi complied, bounding over and through the mashing orcish throng, crushing many foul creatures as he veritably sailed over the black hordes. 

But Baelorn reined him in, right before they were quite free. Baelorn's ears were met with a sound that was somehow familiar. He stood up in the saddle and strained to see in the early morning darkness. And if not for the rekindling of some of the enemies' torches, he would not have seen the wild form swinging blindly at a circle of tormenting orcs. 

"_Ilrhenir!_" Baelorn screamed above the sounds of the masses. He could hardly believe the boy yet lived! 

Naisi planted a swift kick, soundly crushing the skull of an orc behind them, before heeding Baelorn's command to bound into the circular fray. Ilrhenir was at some distance, but before long, Baelorn arrived. Eorling and horse, together slayed orcs and cut down the Dunlanders, who were beginning to fear that Baelorn was some impervious demon. 

Ilrhenir was oblivious. He neither saw nor heard Baelorn, though Baelorn was near and it was at great risk to Naisi that he drove the horse into Ilrhenir's wild, wide sword swinging. He grasped the frantic boy by the collar and for the second time that night, the third since meeting Ilrhenir, he hauled him up over the saddle-horn and rode out of the reach of their enemies who snarled in frustration, but who gave no great chase. 

For once, the sheer volume of their enemies played out to their benefit. No army pursued one lone warrior, even if they _could_ manage to maneuver thousands of forces to do so. Their march was set and no single Rohirrim would be fodder enough to be worthy of a halt to the gruesome pace they set. 

Baelorn set a fast pace southeast, with a struggling, maddened Ilrhenir in his grasp.

"Ilrhenir! Be Still!" Baelorn shouted. He swiftly looped the reins to a saddle ring in order to free both hands to manage Ilrhenir. 

"Let me go! Let me down to fight them!" Baelorn knew then that Ilrhenir was not himself. He wrestled the wiry youth, grabbing one leg and hauling it before him, over the saddle ere he inadvertently dropped the boy while they were galloping along. 

"Ilrhenir, we must fly! The enemy is behind us and I dare not set you down!" Baelorn finally managed a strong hold around the Ilrhenir's middle that he could maintain until the youth ceased his thrashing. 

"No!" Ilrhenir sobbed madly. "I can not leave them behind!" Ilrhenir was beginning to weaken, but still he attempted to free himself to the ground, oblivious to the swift pace that Naisi maintained. 

"Leave _what_ behind!" Baelorn was too accomplished a rider to be tipped off the saddle. His concern instead, was that Ilrhenir would aggravate his hurts. The youth was thrashing like a mad man. 

"Momma's coins, I have to find them!" 

__

Oh yes, the boy is indeed unsound of mind, Baelorn thought. To Ilrhenir, he called commandingly. "Leave them!"   


This renewed the strength of Ilrhenir's struggle. "I will not!" 

"_You will_! The coins mean nothing!" Baelorn loosed one of his arms and pulled Ilrhenir's head back tightly to his shoulder, speaking against the boy's ear in a compassionate but inexorable tone. "They mean nothing, lad." 

Baelorn could feel shaking in Ilrhenir's limbs, signaling that he was close to collapse, but not before one final outburst. "You are wrong!" Ilrhenir arched in Baelorn's grasp and screamed. "_They're all I have left of her_!" 

Baelorn kept hold of him and when Ilrhenir finally went limp in his arms, sobbing, the hand that had trapped the youth's released. "Peace Ilrhenir." Baelorn said calmly. "There is perhaps little enough time still allotted us ere the end of this war comes. Let what ghosts you've carried in your heart lie at rest upon this field, and come away with me to see another day." 

"Baelorn, I..." Ilrhenir fought off another sob, already becoming ashamed of his actions as clarity descended upon him. But his eyes were still filled with such hurt that Baelorn could find no more words to ease him. 

So instead Baelorn gently pulled Naisi to a slower pace and situated Ilrhenir better before him. "No need for words between us, Ilrhenir. Much has befallen you recently." 

Ilrhenir's eyes scrunched up, and he wiped the tears off his cheeks with shaking , filthy hands. "I'm so tired, Baelorn..." And Ilrhenir shuddered as his hands tightened around Baelorn's arm at his waist. Baelorn's presence was grounding, and for one irrational moment Ilrhenir was almost afraid that their escape was an illusion and that the older man would disappear. 

Baelorn relaxed into the saddle. And for a while there was a comfortable silence as Ilrhenir gathered himself. Then Baelorn spoke, his voice strong but soothing. "I estimate it to be no more than three in the morning, and we are _both_ weary beyond telling. Sleep, Ilrhenir. You will have need of it." 

Baelorn wished to walk down Naisi's to a slower pace but the army behind them did not tarry and so neither could they. He turned them more southerly, traveling, at a distance away and ahead out of the armies direct path. He knew that it would cost them time in reaching Helm's Deep, but it would keep them from being overrun if Naisi failed at last. 

He reached back and pulled a blanket out of his saddlebags tucking it over Ilrhenir and then laid a hand to the youth's face, feeling for the fever that had been gone less than two days. 

"Are you hurt? Beyond that knock on your head? " Baelorn asked.

"Not greatly. You?" Ilrhenir yawned and then winced. Despite not having taken any serious injury to add to the others, his older complaints sounded loudly. He marveled though that he was actually growing accustomed to the ache.

Baelorn chuckled. "Only the ones you recently inflicted." 

Ilrhenir squirmed a bit. "I am sorry." He flushed slightly. 

"Pay no mind, you gave better than the orcs did." He chuckled again. "Go to sleep, lad." 

Ilrhenir nodded a little, closing his eyes. "Just for a little while. Then I can ride in back behind you and you can sleep." His voice drifted into silence, his head lolled back against Baelorn's shoulder. 

Baelorn snorted at the absurd image. 

"And Baelorn?" 

"Aye?" 

"I am no lad" 

"Indeed not, Ilrhenir." There was a pause in which Baelorn thought Ilrhenir had dozed off. 

"Baelorn…" 

"OH! Let's not start that again, shall we?" Baelorn hissed in exasperation.

Ilrhenir actually chuckled, himself. "I was only going to say that all day yesterday, it looked as though a storm were brewing in the sky. Are we to expect rain?" 

"A Storm brews lad, but I know not of what kind. It seems fowler than just what might bring rain." He growled. 

"That's too bad. I love the rain, Baelorn. It's cold, but it always feels clean." Ilrhenir's voice carried the musical tone of drowsiness. 

And as Ilrhenir's eyes closed, he recalled a song verse Jenna used to sing. He sung it softly as he drifted off to sleep. 

"Who loves the rain  
And loves his home,  
And looks on life with quiet eyes,  
Him will I follow through the storm;  
And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;   
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,  
Who loves the rain,  
And loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes."


End file.
